COW^YIIFE 
WESlSmPLAINS 


REMINISCENCES 

E^CHMAN 


i^ab' 


MsERBBi 


wppf*^.^g!W(»«"" 


COWBOY  LIFE  ON  THE 
WESTERN     PLAINS 


Harry  promptly  took  Tison's  pistol 


COWBOY  LIFE  on  the 
WESTERN  PLAINS 

The  Reminiscences  of  a  Ranchman 


BY 

EDGAR  BEEGHER  BRONSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  RED- BLOODED."  ETC. 


Fascinating  stories  of  life  among  men 
who  had  to  ^^  make  good  or  make 
tracks  y 

Gripping  tales  of  men  whose  best 
friends  were  their  nerve  and  their  gun. 

The  making  of  a  cowboy — hunting 
down  the  rustlers — sanguinary  fights 
with  Indians  where  death  was  the 
price  of  defeat — the  round-up. 

19   Full-page   Wonderful   Wild 
West  Pictures 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


:3^ 


COPTRIGHT 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1910 

Published  September  10,  1910 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 

Copyright,  1908,  by  The  Pearson  Publishing  Company 
Copyright,  1908,  by  The  McClure  Company 


ri?TN>rfi;p"iN  the  united  states  of  America 


<9 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OP 

CLARENCE   KING, 

HIS  RANCH  PARTNER  AND  LIFELONG  FRIEND. 

AND  TO  THAT  OF 

TEX  (B.  FULLER)  AND  SAM  CRESS, 

THE  BEST  COWBOYS  HE  EVER  KNEW  AND  THE 

STANCHEST   MATES   HE   EVER    HAD. 

THE  AUTHOR  AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATES  THIS  BOOK 


nf.24RR 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

A  Deseet  Sport        .       .       .       •       . 

VAGB 

3 

II 

The  Making  of  a  Cowboy 

23 

III 

The  Tenderfoot's  Trials 

52 

IV 

The  Tenderfoot's  First  Herd 

74 

V 

A  Cowboy  Mutiny     .... 

93 

VI 

Wintering  Among  Rustlers  . 

107 

VII 

A  Finish  Fight  for  a  Birthright 

.     127 

VIII 

McGillicuddy's  Sword 

.     198 

XI 

The  Last  Great  Sun  Dance 

.     221 

'     X 

End  of  the  Trail  (Cowboy  Logic  an 
Frolic) 

d 
252 

XI 

Concho  Curly  at  the  Op'ra  . 

.     274 

XII 

Adtos  to  Deadman    .... 

.     291 

XIII 

A  Cheyenne  Warrior-Historian  . 

.     315 

XIV 

The  Conqueror  of  Mount  Tyndall 

.     325 

Appendix 

.     361 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


Paqb 

"Harry  promptly  took  Tison's  pistol"      .        .Frontispiece 

"The  next  thing  was  a  new  outfit"  .        .        .        .  26 

"Jest  shet  y'r  yawp,  pronto/" 32 

"That  yell  was  nearly  my  undoing"        ...  48 

"  The  only  response  a  surly  *  fcwerio '  "  ...  90 
"Then  out  came  my  own  gun,  and  with  the  pair  in 

my  hands,  I  whirled  on  the  bunch  "  .  .  .100 
Seventy  odd  head  of  our  cattle  were  driven  away 

by  three  men" 116 

"it  was  a  pity  I  had  so  little  time  to  give  to  the 

scenery" 122 

The  defiance  of  Dull  Knife 170 

"if  you  don't  give  us  grub,  I'll  kill  every  white 

man  on  this  reservation  " 212 

We  were  barely  down  when,  charging  us  at  mad 

speed,  came  a  war  party" 214 

"Criers  called  the  stirring  news  that  the  time  for 

the  Sun  Dance  had  come"   .....  226 

The  Mystery  Tree        . 234 

But  before  he  could  light  on  her  with  his  knife,  I 

hopped  out  of  my  close-pen  into  the  canon"      .  288 

Fac-similes  of  paintings  by  Little  Finger  Nails         .  316 

Fac-similes  of  paintings  by  Little  Finger  Nails         .  318 

Fac-similes  of  paintings  by  Little  Finger  Nails         .  320 

Fac-similes  of  paintings  by  Little  Finger  Nails         •  322 

Portrait  of  Clarence  King 330 


COWBOY  LIFE  ON  THE  WESTERN  PLAINS 


REMINISCENCES  OF  A  RANCHMAN 


CHAPTER    ONE 
A  DESERT  SPORT 

AH,  yes,  indeed,  my  boy,  you  are  quite  right. 

/jL  My  years  in  the  Sierras  and  plains  of  Cali- 
^  JIl  fornia,  Oregon,  and  Nevada  were  the  hap- 
piest I  have  ever  known  or  ever  expect  to  know. 

"  Science  I  love,  but  geology  is  the  only  branch  of 
science  that  could  have  held  me  to  its  active,  per- 
sistent pursuit. 

"  For  me  the  study  or  the  laboratory  would  have 
been  utterly  impossible. 

*'  The  working  geologist,  on  the  contrary,  dwells 
in  close  contact  with  Nature  in  her  wildest  and  most 
savage  moods.  He  seeks  the  solution  of  his  problems 
where  vast  dynamic  forces  have  in  past  ages  crumpled 
the  earth's  crust  and  brought  huge  mountain  ranges 
into  being — ranges  that  expose  its  structure  and  tell 
much  from  which  we  may  deduce  how  its  structure 
was  accomplished. 

"  Our  tasks  take  us  out  across  the  rolling  yellow 
billows  of  the  plains,  through  the  profound  silences 
[3] 


BEMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

of  burning  deserts,  whose  colours  would  fire  tlie 
artist's  brain  to  frenzy,  up  into  the  magnificent  up- 
lifts of  the  Sierras,  with  their  singing  brooks  and 
roaring  torrents,  their  majestic  redwoods  and  fra- 
grant pines,  their  smiling,  flowery  glades  and  sinister 
bald  summits,  their  warm,  sheltered  nooks  and  grim, 
pitiless  glaciers — out  beyond  civilisation  and  settle- 
ments, where  to  sustain  himself  man  must  confront 
the  raw  forces  of  animate  and  inanimate  nature,  as 
did  our  forebears  of  the  stone  age,  and  conquer  or 
succumb.  It  is  a  life  that  develops  weird  types,  and  it 
is  of  one  of  these  I  am  about  to  tell  you." 

The  speaker  was  Clarence  King,  one  of  the  intel- 
lectual princes  of  the  earth,  with  a  stout  berserker 
heart  set  in  a  breast  tender  of  sentiment  as  a  wom- 
an's, a  man  whose  friends  were  many  as  the  folk  he 
knew. 

It  was  in  1875. 

He  was  then  engaged  in  compiling,  from  his  notes, 
the  reports  and  maps  of  the  field  work  on  the  40th 
Parallel  which,  scientifically,  remain  his  greatest 
monument,  assisted  in  this  work  by  S.  F.  Emmons, 
Jas.  T.  Gardiner,  and  Arnold  Hague,  his  field  staff. 

On  the  introduction  and  recommendation  of  John 
Hay,  then  lately  returned  from  service  as  Minister  to 
Spain,  and  at  the  time  an  editorial  writer  on  The 
[4] 


A   DESERT    SPORT 

Tribune,  King  had  employed  me  as  a  sort  of  secre- 
tary to  assist  in  the  publication  of  the  reports. 

We  were  spending  the  summer  in  Newport,  living 
and  working  in  the  old  hip-roofed  house  at  the  corner 
of  Church  and  High  Streets  that  had  belonged  to  his 
aunt,  Caroline  King,  a  house  bright  with  the  rich 
fabrics,  grim  with  the  weird  carvings  and  porcelains 
and  fragrant  with  the  strange  scents  of  the  Far  East, 
where  King's  father  and  two  uncles  were  the  first 
American  traders,  and  where  all  three  lost  their  lives 
most  tragically. 

It  was  during  a  lull  in  the  work — ^and  the  lulls 
came  often  and  sometimes  lasted  through  many  work- 
ing hours;  came  often  as  a  new  stage  of  the  notes 
reached  reminded  him  of  battles  fought  and  won 
in  his  struggles  for  the  mastery  of  old  Paleozoic 
secrets — thirsting  in  the  Bad  Lands,  scorching  in 
the  Mojave  Desert,  slipping  on  glacial  slopes  of  Mt. 
Whitney,  leaping  crevasses  on  Mt.  Rainier,  struggles 
with  broncos,  fights  with  grizzlies,  scraps  with  In- 
dians— tales  to  fire  the  love  of  adventure  latent  in 
most  youngsters ;  tales  that  fired  mine  and  turned  the 
tables  of  my  life,  turned  me  from  the  newspaper  work 
then  my  trade  and  made  me  mount  a  train  the  very 
day  after  my  work  with  him  was  finished,  ticketed 
straight  away  to  Cheyenne. 

[5] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"  It  was  while  I  was  with  Brewer,"  King  resumed. 
**  We  had  finished  a  season's  field  work  and  were  jour- 
neying across  the  Humboldt  Desert,  with  a  pack  out- 
fit, to  our  California  headquarters. 

"  The  Indians  were  bad  that  year,  and  we  had  with 
us  a  small  escort  of  ten  cavalrymen. 

"  Our  two  packers,  besides  being  worthy  knights 
of  the  Diamond  Hitch,  were  otherwise  accomplished. 

"  Fresno  Pete  was  a  half-breed  Mexican  vaquero, 
earlier  famous  from  the  Fresno  to  the  Sacramento  as 
a  bronco  buster.  Many  the  time  on  dias  de  fiesta,  at 
some  rancJio  or  placita  of  the  San  Joaquin  Valley, 
sloe-eyed  seiioritas  smiled,  silver-girt  sombreros  were 
tossed  in  air,  many-coloured  rebosos  waved,  and  lusty 
hravos  shouted  in  compliment  to  some  victory  of 
Fresno  Pete's  over  all  comers,  vaqueros  and  horses 
alike — and  the  San  Joaquin  was  for  many  years 
famous  for  breeding  the  wildest  broncos  and  best 
busters  in  the  State. 

"  Faro  Harry  was  a  Virginia  City  gambler,  a 
graceful,  supple  figure,  sinuous  of  movement  as  a 
snake,  quick  as  a  cat,  and  of  a  superhuman  dexterity 
with  a  pistol,  who,  by  his  own  reserved  account,  had 
sought  service  with  us  for  his  health.  But  from  ob- 
servation of  his  perfect  physique  and  some  knowledge 
of  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by  Virginia's 
[6] 


A   DESERT    SPORT 

undertakers,  Harry's  real  motive  for  absenting  him- 
self from  the  rich  pickings  of  mine  owners'  private 
rolls  and  pay  rolls,  and  contenting  himself  with  a 
packer's  modest  pay,  was  surmised  by  our  party  to 
lie  in  the  fact  that  the  local  Virginia  '  Boot  Hill ' 
(especially  reserved  to  the  occupancy  of  gentlemen 
who  had  passed  out  of  this  life  with  their  boots  on) 
was  full  to  overflowing,  suggesting  temporary  sus- 
pension of  his  recreations  until  a  contemplated  addi- 
tion to  the  *  Hill '  could  be  made  ready. 

"  We  had  been  on  very  scant  rations  of  water  for 
forty-eight  hours,  our  throats  and  nostrils  parched 
and  our  skin  cracked  by  the  fierce  heat  and  blinding 
sands  of  the  desert.  It  was,  therefore,  with  the  great- 
est satisfaction  we  pitched  camp  early  one  afternoon 
in  the  little  clump  of  cottonwoods  about  Antelope 
Spring,  the  only  water  on  the  desert  trail,  and  by 
turns  buried  our  faces  in  its  cool  depths  and  lolled  in 
the  shade  its  waters  fed. 

"  The  spring  was  then  held,  by  right  of  occupancy 
at  least,  if  by  no  better  title,  by  Old  Man  Tison,  a 
hunter  well-nigh  sixty,  but  strong  and  active  as  in  his 
youth — a  tall,  gaunt,  sinewy  man,  with  a  shock  of 
iron-gray  hair  falling  over  the  collar  of  his  buckskin 
shirt;  great  festoons,  that  looked  like  Spanish  moss 
pendent  from  his  chin,  close-set,  fierce  gray  eyes  glar- 
[T] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

ing  out  from  ambush  beneath  other  clusters  of  gray 
moss,  with  hands  hke  hams  and  moccaslned  feet  that 
left  a  trail  that  '  looked  like  where  a  bunch  of  deer 
had  bedded,'  in  the  vernacular  of  the  region. 

''  Tison's  cabin  stood  perhaps  fifty  yards  from  the 
spring,  and  there  he  had  dwelt  I  don't  know  how 
many  years,  with  a  Pah-Ute  squaw  for  a  helpmeet, 
and  seven  or  eight  half-breeds,  of  assorted  sizes,  as 
incidents.  He  had  a  few  cows  and  piebald  cayuse 
ponies,  but  subsisted  himself  chiefly  by  selling  water 
and  venison  to  overland  travellers,  for  wayfarers  on 
the  desert  had  as  little  time  to  hunt  meat  as  they  had 
opportunity  to  get  water. 

"  Not  long  after  we  pitched  camp,  refreshed  by  the 
water  and  the  shade,  I  strolled  over  toward  Tison's 
cabin,  for  he  had  not  yet  been  near  us.  As  I  ap- 
proached the  cabin,  a  great,  fierce  yellow  dog,  evi- 
dently of  a  strong  mastiff  strain,  sprang  out  at  me, 
snarling  and  snapping  viciously.  No  one  showed  at 
the  door  or  the  one  window  of  the  cabin.  Glad  of  re- 
lief from  its  weight,  I  had  left  my  pistol  belt  in  camp. 
Thus  I  was  confronting  the  dog  with  bare  hands,  too 
far  from  the  door  to  make  it  before  he  could  seize  me, 
without  even  stick  or  stone  in  reach,  and  yet  reluctant 
to  call  for  help  from  his  heedless  owner. 

*'  In  this  dilejnma,  waiting  till  the  dog  dashed  up 
[8] 


A   DESERT    SPORT 

almost  upon  me,  I  made  a  spring,  seized  him  by  either 
jowl,  gave  him  a  violent  shaking  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  releasing  one  hand,  patted  him  on  the  head  and 
spoke  to  him  quietly. 

"  First  the  savage  wrinkles  began  to  smooth  out  of 
his  face,  then  his  tail  started  a  friendly  wag,  and  the 
next  thing  I  knew  his  great  paws  were  on  my  shoul- 
ders, and  he  was  fawning  upon  me  as  violently  as  a 
few  seconds  before  he  had  threatened. 

"  Just  at  this  very  moment  old  Tison  himself 
stepped  to  the  door.  He  must  have  heard  the  snarling 
and  barking,  but  had  seen  none  of  the  earlier  stages 
of  the  incident. 

"  '  Fine  dog  you  have,  sir,'  I  called.  '  Must  be  a 
splendid  watch  dog.' 

"  '  Hell  he  is.  I  sorta  thort  he  was.  Say,  stranger,' 
he  asked,  '  did  yu-all  ever  see  that  thar  dog  bef o'  ? 
Were  he  raised  wl'  yu,  or  anythin'  thataway?  ' 

"  '  Why  no,  I  never  set  eyes  on  him  until  this  very 
minute.  Has  a  nice,  kind  temper,  hasn't  he  ?  ' 

"  '  Wall,  stranger,  sence  yu  'pear  t'  think  so  much 

o'  him  'n'  he  o'  yu,  he's  y'urn.  Stranger,  by no 

man  ever  handled  that  thar  dog  befo'  but  me,  'n'  I 

won't  have  airy  d n  dog  't  airy  other  feller  kin 

handle,'  he  snapped,  in  a  growl  as  surly  and  threaten- 
ing as  his  dog's.  '  What  'n  hell  the  use  o'  a  d n 

[9] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

dog  't  airy  fool  stranger  't  comes  along  kin  handle? 
Might  's  well  have  a  passle  o'  sheep  round,'  he  added, 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  '  Suppose  you  and  your  dog  take  a  running  jump 
for — ^Yuma,'  I  suggested,  turned  back  to  camp,  told 
Brewer  and  the  boys  the  incident,  and  received  their 
congratulations  on  the  cordiality  of  my  reception  by 
the  lord  of  this  desert  manor. 

"  And  before  the  laugh  at  my  expense  had  ceased, 
a  shot  rang  out  from  the  direction  of  the  cabin,  and, 
looking,  we  could  see  the  dog's  great  tawny  length 
writhing  in  death  throes  on  the  sand ! 

"  A  half  hour  later,  Tison  strolled  over  to  our 
camp  fire,  drawled  a  gruff  '  Howdy,'  with  a  compre- 
hensive nod,  and  stood  for  some  time  staring  sullenly 
in  the  fire.  Presently  he  spoke: 

"  '  Boys,  yu-all's  done  handled  my  dog,  but  I  want 

to  tell  yu  I'm  the  d dst  best  bronco  buster  't  ever 

forked  a  twister,  'n'  I  got  a  cayuse  'ts  sech  plumb 
p'ison  't  nobody's  ever  sot  him  fer  keeps  but  me.  Ef 
thar  was  airy  man  in  this  yere  camp  as  thinks  he's 
th'  reel  thing  in  buckjeros,  I'd  admire  t'  see  him  fork 
that  thar  cayuse.  O'  course,  I  cain't  promise  nuthin' 
t'  his  widder,  'cept  that  th'  r^-mains  will  be  gathered 
'n'  planted  wi'  cer'monies.' 

"  This  challenge  was  nothing  short  of  joy  to  Fres- 

[10] 


A   DESERT    SPORT 

no  Pete,  who  for  weeks  had  been  showering  rolling 
Spanish  expletives  upon  the  steady  pack  train  mule 
he  rode  for  its  unbearable  docility. 

" '  Meestar  Teeson,'  Pete  promptly  spoke  up,  *  I 
weell  have  much  gusto  try  for  ride  your  horse.  He 
keel  me — bueno,  no  importa,  for  I  no  have  woman, 
me.  But,  car  a  jo!  I  much  more  like  keel  him.  Injun 
cayuse  never  foaled  can  t'row  Pete.' 

"  Without  another  word,  Tison  strode  off  to  his 
house,  and  soon  a  couple  of  little  half-breeds  were 
scurrying  out  over  some  low  sand  hills,  from  behind 
which  they  shortly  drove  in  and  penned  seven  or  eight 
ponies.  As  they  entered,  Pete  picked  up  his  riata, 
bridle  and  saddle,  and  started  for  the  pen,  followed 
by  every  man  in  camp,  including  the  cook. 
>  "  Arrived,  Pete  entered  and  joined  Tison,  while 
the  rest  of  us  distributed  ourselves  along  the  top  rails 
of  the  corral  fence. 

"  '  Stranger,'  growled  Tison,  *  ef  you  hain't  got  no 
mammy  o'  neah  kin  folk  't  '11  miss  yu  none,  yu  might 
drop  yu  rope  on  that  thar  split-eared  pinto,  'n'  ef  yu 
cain't  git  yu'  saddle  on  him,  jes'  call  on  th'  ole  man ' 
— and  then  he,  too,  discreetly  climbed  the  fence. 

"  The  pinto  indicated  was  an  unusually  stocky 
build  for  an  Indian  pony,  heavier  than  the  average  by 
two  hundred  pounds,  lacking  the  usual  long  barrel, 

[  11  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

ewe  neck  and  light  quarters  of  his  breed — a  powerful 
beast  for  his  inches. 

"  The  moment  the  lariat  noose  tightened  on  his 
neck,  he  charged  at  Pete  like  a  thunderbolt,  with 
mouth  open,  teeth  bared,  and  such  a  look  of  fury  on 
his  face  that,  to  Tison's  great  delight,  and  the  gen- 
eral amusement  of  the  crowd,  Pete  made  a  hasty  and 
ignominious  ascent  of  the  fence. 

"  Then  Pete  slipped  down  from  the  fence,  caught 
the  end  of  the  trailing  rope,  and  sought  to  snub  it 
about  a  snubbing  post.  But  he  was  too  slow.  Before 
he  could  reach  it  the  pinto  was  almost  upon  him, 
reared  on  its  hind  legs,  prepared  to  strike,  and  Pete 
had  to  shift  tactics. 

"  Just  as  the  pinto  struck,  Pete  side-stepped  and 
sprang  back  fifteen  or  twenty  feet,  and  then,  as  the 
pinto  again  reared,  Pete  threw  a  half-hitch  circle  in 
his  rope  that  ran  rapidly  up  the  rope  till  it  neatly 
encircled  both  forefeet,  made  a  quick  run  to  one  side, 
and  gave  a  stout  pull,  and  brought  the  pinto  to  the 
ground.  Before  he  could  rise,  Pete  lit  on  him  and  soon 
had  the  wicked  hind  hoofs  safely  half-hitched,  and  all 
four  feet  securely  bound  together  in  the  '  hog-tie.' 

*'  After  that,  it  was  only  a  matter  of  a  little  time 
to  saddle  and  bridle  him,  while  he  thus  lay  bound 
upon  the  ground. 

[12J 


A  DESERT   SPORT 

"  Then  Pete  placed  his  left  foot  in  the  stirrup  and 
stood  astride  the  horse,  seized  reins  and  saddle  horn 
in  his  right  hand,  reached  down  with  his  left  and  re- 
leased the  bound  feet,  and  the  pinto  rose  under  him, 
with  Pete  firmly  settled  in  the  saddle. 

"  *  Huh ! '  grunted  old  Tison,  '  thinks  he's  d n 

smart,  don't  he?  Wait  till  th'  pinto  lites  in  to  drive 
his  backbone  up  thru  th'  top  o'  his  haid,  'n'  ef  she 
ain't  case-hardened,  he'll  shore  do  it.' 

"  And  that  the  pinto  honestly  tried  to  make  old 
Tison's  word  good  we  were  all  ready  to  admit. 

"  The  gate  had  been  opened,  and  Pete  wanted,  of 
course,  to  get  him  outside.  But  this  did  not  suit  the 
peculiarly  devilish  strategy  of  the  pinto,  who  was 
quick  to  observe  useful  first  aids  to  the  injured 
bronco  within  the  walls  of  the  corral  itself.  Along 
the  north  wall  of  the  pen  ran  a  long,  low  shed,  a 
shed  so  low  that  when,  after  three  or  four  minutes' 
violent  bucking  in  the  centre  of  the  pen  that  would 
have  unseated  most  men,  the  pinto  suddenly  plunged, 
bucking  high  as  he  could  leap,  beneath  the  shed, 
Pete  had  to  swing  his  body  down  alongside  the 
horse,  till  quite  below  level  of  horn  and  cantle,  to 
save  himself. 

"  Disgusted  with  this  failure  the  pinto  pitched 
madly  twice  about  the  open  pen,  then  stopped  and 
[13] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

looked  about.  To  his  right,  a  low  gate  or  door  had 
been  cut  through  the  solid  log  wall,  leading  to  a  milk 
pen,  the  upper  log  left  uncut  for  lintel.  The  moment 
he  espied  this  door,  at  it  the  pinto  dashed,  and  rein 
and  spur  as  he  would,  Pete  could  not  turn  him.  Noth- 
ing remained  but  to  throw  himself  bodily  out  of  the 
saddle,  and  so  throw  himself  Pete  did  (without  seri- 
ous injury),  just  as  the  horse  plunged  through  the 
door,  the  horn  of  the  saddle  catching  on  the  lintel, 
bursting  latigos  and  tearing  out  cinch  rings,  and 
leaving  the  saddle  a  wreck  behind  him. 

"  *  Bein'  as  th'  pinto's  so  easy  gaited  'n'  kind  like, 
would  yu  now  allow  t'  ride  him  bar'  back,  o'  shall  we- 
uns  loan  yu  a  saddle  ? '  patronisingly  queried  old 
Tison. 

"  '  I  tak  a  saddle,  me,  por  ese  diahlot*  panted  Pete. 

''  Another  saddle  was  quickly  brought. 

"  The  pinto,  bleeding  of  flank  where  the  rending 
saddle  had  torn  him,  was  driven  back  into  the  main 
corral,  Pete  again  roped  him,  and,  with  Harry's  help, 
drove  him  through  the  gate  into  the  open,  where  he 
was  again  saddled,  and  Pete  remounted. 

"  Then  ensued  a  battle  royal  between  bronco  and 
buster,  for  perhaps  twenty  minutes — the  bronco  by 
turns  pitching  furiously,  and  then  standing  and  try- 
ing to  kick  Pete's  feet  out  of  the  stirrups,  or  bowing 
[14] 


A   DESERT    SPORT 

his  neck  in  effort  to  bite  his  legs,  with  an  occa- 
sional rear  and  fall  backward,  while  all  the  time 
Pete's  spurs  and  quirt  were  cruelly  searching  flank 
and  shoulders. 

"  In  the  end  Pete  conquered,  rode  the  pinto  quietly 
back  into  the  pen,  drawn  of  flank,  quivering  in  every 
muscle,  hardly  able  to  stand,  and  painfully  swung  out 
of  the  saddle,  his  own  nose  bleeding  severely. 

"  *  Wall,  stranger,  I  reckon  it's  up  t'  me  t'  say  yu 
shore  kin  ride  some,'  grumbled  old  Tison,  and  then 
we  all  strode  back  to  camp. 

"  A  half  hour  before  supper  was  called  old  Tison 
paid  us  another  visit.  For  probably  ten  minutes  he 
stood,  glum  and  silent,  among  us.  Then,  suddenly, 
his  face  brightened  with  a  happy  thought,  and,  still 
staring  into  the  fire,  he  spoke : 

"  *  Fellers,  I  'lows  yu-all  reckons  I'm  a  purty  pore 
sort  o'  white  trash.  Yu  done  handled  my  dog  'n'  rid 
th'  pinto.  But  I  now  puts  it  up  to  yu-all  cold  that 
thar  ain't  airy  one  o'  yu  bunch  kin  tech  me  a  shootin' 
'v  a  gun.  I'm  the  shore  chief  o'  th'  Humboldt  Desert 
wi'  a  six-shooter ;  wi'  a  six,  fellers,  I'm  a  wolf  off  the 
headwaters  o'  Bitter  Creek,  'n'  it's  my  time  t'  howl 
all  th'  time !  Don't  guess  airy  o'  yu  fellers  kin  shoot 
none,  kin  yu?  ' 

"  This  was  plainly  Faro  Harry's  cue,  and  he  mod- 

[15] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

estly  mentioned  that  some  of  his  friends  thought  he 
could  shoot  a  little,  but  probably  he  would  not  be  in 
it  with  a  real  Bitter  Creek  lead  pumper — a  gentle 
piece  of  irony  from  a  man  so  expert  he  could  have  let 
Tison  draw  and  then  have  killed  him  before  he  got  his 
gun  cocked. 

"  Tison  had  shown  such  an  ugly  mood  that  none  of 
us,  probably  Harry  least  of  all,  were  certain  whether 
his  proposal  was  meant  as  an  invitation  to  a  fight  or 
a  target  match.  It  was,  therefore,  some  relief  to  us 
when  Tison  answered: 

"*Huh!  Think  yu  kin  shoot  a  leetle,  do  they.? 
Wall,  yu'U  have  t'  shoot  straight  as  ole  Mahster 
travels  when  he  makes  up  his  mind  t'  git  yu,  t'  hold  a 
candle  t'  me,  Ef  yu  has  no  objections,  I'll  jes  shoot 
yu  three  shots  apiece  fo'  th'  champeenship  o'  this  yere 
desert ;  'n'  yu  beats  me,  yu  shore  wins  her.' 

"  A  match  was  soon  arranged,  distance  ten  paces, 
Harry's  target  the  three  spot  of  spades,  Tison's  the 
three  of  clubs. 

"  Tison  fired  his  round,  aiming  carefully  and  slow- 
ly, fairly  hitting  two  of  the  three  clubs,  and  narrowly 
missing  the  third. 

"  Then  Harry,  firing  quickly  and  rapidly,  sent  a 
ball  into  each  of  his  three  spades,  amazingly  near  the 
centre  of  each. 

[16] 


A    DESERT    SPORT 

"  *  'Cain't  do  it  agin,  with  my  gun,  kin  yu  ?  '  Tison 
grumbled. 

"  Faro  promptly  took  Tison's  pistol,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  had  almost  plugged  the  three  holes  pre- 
viously made  in  his  three  spades. 

"  Tison  received  back  his  pistol,  turned  it  over  in 
his  hands  once  or  twice,  felt  of  hammer  and  trigger, 
and  then  tossed  it  on  the  ground,  remarking:  v. 

*'  *  Reckon  't's  up  to  me  t'  r^-tire  from  th'  shoot- 
in'  biznes ! '  and  he  slouched  back  to  the  house. 

*'  As  we  were  sitting  down  to  supper,  Professor 
Brewer  remarked  to  Faro: 

"  '  Well,  Harry,  I  imagine  you  have  taken  the  last 
ounce  of  brag  out  of  Old  Man  Tison.  Surely  there 
can  be  nothing  else  he  can  fancy  himself  such  a  past 
master  of  that  he  will  be  after  us  with  a  new  chal- 
lenge.' 

"  *  Professor,'  answered  Harry,  '  I  has  to  disagree 
with  you.  I  know  that  old  coffee-cooler's  breed  pretty 
well,  and  if  I'm  not  badly  mistaken,  he'll  be  makin' 
plays  at  us  till  the  game  closes  by  our  leavin',  or  at 
least  until  he  finds  a  game  he  can  do  us  at.  Mighty 
stick- to-a-tive  kind  o'  folks,  his'n.  Cain't  just  think 
what  she's  apt  to  be,  but  he's  dead  sure  to  spring  a 
new  play  of  some  sort.' 

"  And  Faro's  prediction  proved  true  as  his  shoot- 
[17] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

ing,  for  scarcely  was  our  supper  finished  when  out  of 
the  darkness  and  into  the  circle  of  our  firelight 
stalked  the  grim  figure  of  old  Tison. 

"  Come  among  us,  he  was  chipper  and  chatty  in  a 
measure  we  realised  boded  us  no  good,  for  it  bespoke 
a  joy  we  had  learned  he  did  not  indulge,  at  least  in 
his  intercourse  with  us,  except  when  he  believed  he 
had  worked  out  some  new  scheme  for  our  humiliation. 
Indeed  he  was  so  nearly  downright  gay,  we  sus- 
pected he  had  some  plan  to  tackle  us  en  bloc  instead 
of  individually. 

"  However,  we  were  not  left  long  in  suspense — he 
was  so  pleased  with  and  sure  of  his  new  line  of  attack  , 
he  could  not  long  hold  it,  and  he  also  appeared  to 
fear  it  would  take  some  diplomacy  and  wheedling  to 
enmesh  us. 

"  '  Fellers,'  he  began,  '  I  reckon  it's  up  to  me  t' 
sorta  'pologise  to  yu-all.  O'  course  't  ain't  calc'lated 
t'  sweeten  a  feller's  temper  none  t'  have  his  dog 
handled,  his  worst  outlaw  rid,  'n'  t'  have  th'  hull  lites 
'n'  liver  o'  his  conceit  'bout  bein'  th'  best  gun  shot  on 
th'  desert  kicked  plumb  outen  him  at  one  kick;  'n' 

then,  besides,  that  d d  old  squaw  up  t'  th'  cabin, 

she  gets  t'  steppin'  on  my  narves  pow'ful  hard  some- 
times, 'specially  lately,  gittin'  fool  idees  in  her  ole 
Injun  head  'bout  dressin'  up  'n'  bein'  fash'n'ble  'n' 
[18] 


A   DESERT    SPORT 

goin'  visitin'  'n'  travellin',  like  she  sees  these  yere  emi- 
grants' women  on  th'  overland  trail  dress  up  'n'  go, 
'n'  't's  gittin'  t'  be  jest  'bout  hell  t'  git  t'  hold  her. 
Which-all  's  my  ^^-cuse  fer  treatin'  o'  yu-all  like  t' 
make  yu  think  I  feels  I  wa'n't  licked  on  the  squar. 
But  squar  't  was  'n'  thar's  no  squeal  comin'  t'  me, 
'n'  I  makes  none,  'n'  that's  what  I  come  over  t'  tell 
yu.' 

"  After  a  brief  pause,  a  pause  so  brief  we  lacked 
time  to  make  due  acknowledgment  of  his  apology, 
he  resumed : 

"  '  But  bein'  's  I'm  here  't  jest  occurs  t'  me  t'  re- 
mark that  my  game's  seven-up,  'n'  that  thar  ain't 
airy  feller  'twixt  Salt  Lake  'n'  Sacramento,  'nless 
some  fancy-fingered  perfeshnul  short-card  sharp, 
whose  money  ain't  like  jest  nachally  findin'  it  t'  me  at 
that  thar  game.  O'  cou'se,  arter  sech  a  admission,  I 
ain't  a  invitin'  o'  anybody  t'  shuffle  'n'  deal  wi'  me, 
but  I  shore  got  a  deck  over  't  th'  cabin  that  ain't  busy 
none,  'n'  ef  airy  o'  yu  sci'ntific  gents  counts  gamblin' 
among  yu'  'complishments,  an'  actooally  insists  on  't, 
I  might  be  pe'suaded  t'  go  yu  a  whirl.' 

"  Oddly  enough,  Professor  Brewer,  for  a  member 
of  the  church,  was  far  and  away  the  best  seven-up 
player  I  ever  knew.  He  loved  the  game  and  played  it 
often — for  diversion,  never  for  stake  of  any  kind.  But 

[19] 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

this  night,  carried  away  by  the  humour  of  the  situa- 
tion, Brewer  whispered  to  me : 

"  '  King,  it  does  seem  a  duty  to  take  another  fall 
out  of  that  old  bunch  of  conceit ;  I  really  believe  I 
ought  to  tackle  him.' 

"  And  he  did — strolled  with  Tison  over  to  the 
cabin,  followed  by  three  of  us. 

"  With  the  limited  bunk  space  filled  to  overflowing 
with  half-breeds,  and  the  one  table  the  cabin  boasted, 
backed  up  against  the  wall,  requisitioned  as  an  im- 
promptu bed  for  two  of  the  overflow,  it  only  remained 
for  Brewer  and  Tison  to  convert  a  bench  into  a  joint 
seat  and  table,  by  sitting  astride  it,  and  shuffling  and 
dealing  on  the  bench  space  between  them,  the  blaze 
of  the  fireplace  their  only  light. 

"  Tison  had  the  courage  of  his  convictions  of  his 
own  skill,  and  proposed  stakes  that  made  Brewer  hesi- 
tate, but,  with  a  shrug  and  smile  to  us,  he  accepted 
and  the  game  was  on. 

"  From  the  outset  Brewer  both  outheld  and  out- 
played his  opponent.  Thus  it  was  not  long  until  he 
had  won  all  the  cash  Tison  was  able  to  wager;  and 
when,  about  nine  o'clock,  I  and  my  mates  withdrew  to 
camp,  Tison  had  just  wagered  all  the  horses  he 
owned,  and  Brewer  had  accepted  the  wager  at  such 
valuation  as  Tison  saw  fit  to  name. 
[20] 


A   DESERT    SPORT 

**  About  midnight  Brewer  entered  our  tent  and 
awakened  us  to  say : 

"  '  Boys,  you  can  scarcely  believe  it,  but  I've  won 
every  last  thing  Old  Man  Tison  possesses — money, 
spring,  cabin,  horses  and  cat'ile,  squaw  and  half- 
breeds,  down  to  and  including  the  sucking  papoose — 
and  have  given  it  all  back  to  him!  And  when  I  told 
him  I  had  no  idea  of  accepting  my  winnings,  and 
urged  he  should  regard  the  evening  as  just  a  friendly 
game  for  fun,  then  he  wanted  to  fight  me  "  fer  mak- 


*'  Very  shortly  after  sunrise  the  next  morning,  be- 
fore breakfast  was  ready,  and  even  before  some  of  the 
party  were  up,  Old  Man  Tison  made  us  another  and 
last  visit,  his  wicked  gray  eyes  reddened  and  his  face 
haggard  from  an  evidently  sleepless  night,  his  hands 
stuck  in  his  belt — the  right  dangerously  near  his  gun, 
which  we  had  sent  back  to  him  the  previous  evening, 
so  near  I  noted  Faro  keenly  watching  his  every  move. 

*'  And  when  he  spoke  his  tones  were  ominous ;  his 
voice  had  lost  its  slow,  soft  drawl,  and  instead  carried 
a  crisp,  smart,  vibrant  ring  that  spelled  a  mind  alert 
and  muscles  tense. 

"  '  'Mo'nin',  fellers,'  he  began ;  *  pow'ful  fine  day 
fer  travellin\  ain't  it?  I  'lowed  yu-all  'd  be  u  hittih'  o' 
th'trail'f  ore  this?' 

[21] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

"Faro  indiscreetly  observed  that  we  were  enjoy- 
ing ourselves  so  much  we  thought  we  might  camp 
with  him  several  days. 

" '  Hell  yu  do !  Want  to  be  a  rubbin'  o'  't  in,  do 

yu  ?  Well,  by ,  I  reckon  yu  won't !  Th'  handlin' 

o'  my  dog,  'n'  th'  ridin'  my  pinto,  'n'  th'  out-shootin' 
me  was  all  on  the  squar'  'n'  I  has  no  roar  t'  make,  'n' 
makes  none.  'N'  so  was  th'  beatin'  o'  me  at  seven-up 
on  the  squar',  's  fer  's  th'  game  went,  'n'  the  winnin' 
o'  everything  I  got;  but  sence  that  thar  solemncoly 
sky-pilot-lookin'  feller  rar'd  up  on  his  hind  legs  'n' 
r'fused  t'  take  his  winnin's,  a  makin'  o'  me  look  like 
a  hungry  houn'  pup,  too  pore  t'  take  anythin'  from, 
my  mind's  dead  sot  yu-all  come  here  'special  jes  t' 
see  how  many  different  kinds  o'  a  damn  fool  yu  could 
make  outen  o'  me,  'n'  I  'm  a  gittin',  gradu'lly,  mos' 
terr'ble  riled.  'Nless  th'  sky-pilot-lookin'  feller  takes 
't  least  th'  squaw  'n'  th'  'breeds,  thar  is  shore  t'  be 
hell's  own  trouble  ef  yu-all  don't  pull  yu'r  freight 
pronto.  Mebbeso  I  kin  git  t'  hold  out  a  hour  more, 
but  w'thin  that  time  I'd  shore  admire  t'  see  yu-aU  hit 
th'  trail.' 

"  And,  out  of  consideration  for  Brewer,  we  packed 
and  pulled  out." 


[22] 


CHAPTER   TWO 
THE  MAKING  OF  A  COWBOY 

THE  trials  of  a  tenderfoot  cowboy  on  the 
plains  in  the  early  '70s  were  only  exceeded 
by  the  trials  of  such  of  them  as  survived 
their  apprenticeship  with  enough  hardihood  left  to 
become  tenderfoot  ranchmen.  One  not  only  caught 
it  going  and  coming,  but  often  got  it  hardest  when 
neither  going  nor  coming.  And  the  harder  one  got 
it  the  greater  the  kindness  to  him;  if  his  metal 
rang  true  under  test,  the  sooner  was  he  accepted  into 
the  grim  and  more  or  less  grizzled  Order  of  Old 
Timers ;  if  it  rang  false,  the  quicker  was  he  brought 
to  a  realisation  that  for  him  the  plains  offered  little 
of  opportunity  save  a  chance  to  split  the  scenery 
along  the  shortest  trail  East.  Neither  breeding, 
brains,  nor  money  counted  among  the  nervy  nomads 
of  the  range.  It  was  make  good  or  make  tracks. 

And   for  the  best  man  it  was  far  from  easy  to 
make   good.    The   sudden   transition   from   the   ease 
and  luxuries  of  civilisation  to  the  hard  riding,  hard 
[  23  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

fare,  and  hard  bed  of  a  cowboy  was  trying,  to  say 
the  least. 

At  high  noon  of  a  beautiful  June  day,  the  Overland 
Express  pulled  me  into  Cheyenne,  Wyoming,  and  out 
of  it  I  stepped  into  an  atmosphere  with  a  nip  in  it 
that  set  one's  blood  tingling  like  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne. Out  of  it  I  stepped,  a  youngster  not  yet  of 
age,  bent  to  be  a  cowboy. 

Before  leaving  the  train,  I  had  prudently  strapped 
to  my  waist  a  new  (how  distressingly  new)  .45  Colt's 
six-shooter,  that  looked  and  felt  a  yard  long.  The  one 
possession  larger  than  this  pistol  that  left  the  train 
with  me  was  my  desire  to  learn  to  use  it,  for  I  then 
suspected,  and  a  few  days  later  proved,  that  it  was 
idle  for  me  to  hope  to  hit  with  it  anything  in  the 
landscape  smaller  than  the  heavens  above  or  the  earth 
beneath  me.  In  fact,  for  several  months  the  safest 
thing  in  my  neighbourhood  was  whatever  I  tried  to 
shoot  at  with  that  pistol,  safer  even  than  I  myself 
who  held  it ;  for,  until  I  learned  its  tricks,  the  recoil 
at  each  discharge  gave  me  a  smash  in  the  forehead, 
from  hammer  or  barrel,  that  made  me  wish  I  had  been 
the  target  instead  of  the  marksman. 

At  the  station  I  was  met  by  dear  old  N.  R.  Davis, 
the  hardest  of  taskmasters  on  a  tenderfoot  quitter, 
and  the  best  of  mentors  and  friends  to  a  stayer. 
[24] 


THE    MAKING    OF   A    COWBOY 

While  I  brought  a  letter  of  commendation  from 
his  partner  and  my  best  friend,  Clarence  King,  he 
could  not  help  showing  that  I  lacked  his  approval. 
Nor  was  he  to  be  blamed.  Two  years  before  a  tus- 
sle of  several  weeks  with  a  brain  fever,  immediately 
succeeding  six  months  of  exceptionally  hard  work 
while  in  charge  of  the  New  York  Tribune's  verbatim 
report  of  the  Henry  Ward  Beecher  trial,  had  left  me 
very  much  of  a  physical  wreck,  and  I  dare  say  I 
looked  to  him  better  fit  to  hold  down  a  hospital  cot 
than  to  fork  a  cayuse. 

Then  there  was  my  regalia ! 

For  my  own  condition  doubtless  he  had  a  latent 
sympathy,  but  my  rig  incited  his  open  resentment. 
The  rig  I  had  taken  so  much  time  in  selecting  and 
felt  so  proud  of  he  quickly  consigned  to  the  scrap 
heap — lace  boots,  little  knee  leggings,  short  hunting 
spurs,  little  round  soft  hat;  everything,  indeed,  but 
my  pistol.  And  even  the  pistol  had  to  be  stripped  of 
its  flap  holster  and  rehabited  in  the  then  new  de- 
collete Olive  scabbard. 

The  early  afternoon  was  spent  in  assembling  a 
proper  outfit.  A  bridle,  forty-pound  saddle,  forty-foot 
rawhide  lariat,  California  spurs  with  two-inch  rowels 
and  leather  chaps  that,  when  I  got  them  on,  felt  like 
they  weighed  a  ton,  and  made  me  look  like  I  weighed 
[25] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

ten  pounds,  were  bought  at  Frank  Menea's;  a  tar- 
paulin, a  buffalo  robe  and  two  blankets  for  my  camp 
bed,  boots  and  a  big  hat  John  Harrington  furnished. 

And  then,  fortified  by  two  toddies  at  Luke  Mur- 
rain's, which  N.  R.  had  evidently  suggested  from 
motives  of  sheer  humanity,  we  climbed  into  his  buck- 
board,  forded  Crow  Creek,  and  bowled  away  south 
for  his  0\y1  Creek  ranch,  behind  a  span  of  half -broke 
half-breeds  that  spent  as  little  time  on  the  ground 
and  as  much  up  in  the  air  as  their  harness  handicap 
permitted. 

At  that  time  N.  R.  had  the  finest  horse  ranch  and 
best-bred  horses  in  all  Wyoming,  a  herd  then  headed 
by  the  famous  old  thoroughbred  stallion  Huerfano, 
loved  the  game  of  conquering  and  training  them,  and 
never  drove  a  gentle  pair  if  he  could  help  it;  hu- 
moured his  mad  pets  when  he  could,  rough  handled 
them  when  he  must  to  maintain  mastery,  and  never 
was  he  happier  than  when,  straining  on  the  reins, 
before  him  plunged  a  savage  pair,  eyes  bloodshot, 
lathered  flanks  heaving,  tails  switching,  manes  toss- 
ing, muscles  surging,  cruel  heels  flying  toward  his 
face,  in  a  nip  and  tuck  struggle  where  it  was  his 
neck  and  their  freedom  or  their  bondage  and  his 
mastery. 

There  was  little  talk  on  the  drive;  the  pair  kept 
[26] 


Maynard  Dixoii 


'  The  next  thing  was  a  new  outfit  '* 


THE    MAKING    OF   A    COWBOY 

him  too  busy,  and  concern  about  what  part  of  my 
anatomy  might  first  hit  the  ground  kept  me  think- 
ing. Half  way  or  more  out  he  spoke : 

"  Wonder  if  Kingy  had  it  in  for  you  or  me,  letting 
you  come  out  here?  I  guess  for  both  of  us — thought 
we'd  both  be  sure  to  get  it,  but  mind,  I'm  not  going 
to  favour  you.  You've  got  to  take  your  medicine  with 
Con  Humphrey's  outfit,  and  he's  about  as  tough  a 
rawhide  as  ever  led  a  circle.  But  he  always  gets 
there,  and  that's  the  only  reason  I  keep  him.  It's  lay 
close  to  old  Con's  flank,  Kid,  and  keep  your  end  up  or 
turn  in  your  string  of  horses.  On  the  round-up  no 
soldiering  goes ;  sick  or  well,  it's  hit  yourself  in  the 
flank  with  your  hat  and  keep  up  with  the  .bunch  or  be 
set  afoot  to  pack  your  saddle ;  there's  no  room  in  the 
chuck  wagon  for  a  quitter's  blankets,  and  no  time  to 
close  herd  sick  ones.  So  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  start 
out  unless  you  have  the  guts  to  stand  it." 

While  far  short  of  encouraging,  it  was,  neverthe- 
less, plain  that  N.  R.'s  every  word  was  conceived  in 
kindness.  So  I  simply  answered  that  while  I  would  of 
course  prove  unhandy  at  the  new  work,  he  could  rely 
that  the  moment  I  found  I  could  not  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  the  experienced  punchers,  I  would  myself  want 
to  turn  in  my  horses  and  quit  the  outfit.  Then  he  re- 
sumed : 

[27] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"  I'm  tally-branding  this  summer,  making  a  tally 
or  inventory  of  all  our  cattle  and  horses  for  an  ac- 
counting and  settlement  with  my  partners.  The  cor- 
rals are  full  of  cattle  it  will  take  all  day  to-morrow 
to  run  through  the  chutes  and  hair-brand.  The  next 
morning  Con  starts  his  outfit  down  Willow  to  round 
up  the  Pawnee  Butte  country.  I'll  pass  you  up  to  Con 
to-night,  and  what  he  makes  of  the  new  hand  will  de- 
pend on  what  he  finds  in  it.  We'll  dump  your  blankets 
and  tricks  at  the  chuck  wagon,  and  you  can  make 
down  among  the  boys.  Earlier  you  start  the  sooner 
you'll  learn — and  that,  I  guess,  is  what  you're  here 
for.  Don't  mind  the  boys.  They'll  rough  you  a  lot, 
but  most  of  it  will  be  good-humoured.  If  any  get 
ugly,  you'll  have  to  call  them  down,  that's  all." 

A  little  after  dark  we  reached  the  ranch,  a  big, 
comfortable  frame  house  with  wide  piazzas,  through 
whose  windows  I  caught  glimpses  of  snowy  linen 
and  gleaming  silver  and  cut  glass  in  a  cheerful  din- 
ing-room, that  made  a  picture  of  comfort  and  luxury, 
and  told  a  story  of  generous  feeding,  that  for  the 
next  thirty  days  was  seldom  long  out  of  my  mind. 

At  the  back  of  the  handsome  ranch  house  stood  a 
little  log  cabin,  now  the  winter  home  of  N.  D.  (the 
Davis  brand)  punchers,  that  told  of  humble  begin- 
nings five  years  before. 

[  28  ] 


THE    MAKING    OF    A    COWBOY 

A  few  hundred  feet  south  of  the  house  stood  the 
stables,  and  near  these  a  bunch  of  great  corrals, 
built  of  "  grout  " — solid  walls  of  mortar  and  gravel. 

This  was  all — ^no  pasture,  no  fences,  just  the 
broad  prairies  rolling  away  in  all  directions  to  the 
horizon. 

Past  ranch  and  corrals  tinkled  Owl  Creek,  a  little 
brook  one  could  step  across,  that  struck  me  as  the 
most  pathetic  bit  of  water  I  then  had  ever  seen.  Born 
of  a  tiny  spring  that  feebly  pushed  its  way  into  the 
sunlight  from  beneath  a  low  bluff  a  scant  half  mile 
west  of  the  ranch,  a  spring  bubbling  with  the  mirth 
and  singing  with  the  joy  of  release  from  its  subter- 
ranean prison,  happy  in  the  generous  bounty  it  had 
to  bestow  upon  this  arid  land,  wondering,  like  any 
other  young  thing,  what  lay  beyond  its  horizon,  and 
eager  to  hurry  on  and  see,  the  last  precious  drops  of 
Owl  Creek's  sweet  waters  were  soon  greedily  drunk 
by  the  thirsting  plains,  gone  back  into  Mother 
Earth's  deep  bosom  whence  they  had  so  recently 
come,  and  its  career  ended,  a  scant  half  mile  east 
of  the  ranch! 

There  was  so  much  Owl  Spring  wanted  to  do,  and 

so  httle  it  did.  It  slaked  the  thirst  of  a  few  men  and 

beasts;  one  slender  cottonwood,  frail  as  the  mother 

that  fed  it,  bent  affectionately  over  the  sprang;  two 

[29] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

narrow  ribbons  of  juicy  green  grasses  owed  life  to 
the  spring  and  followed  it  faithfully  to  its  end :  that 
was  all. 

Forever  shut  within  its  narrow;  horizon  though 
Owl  Spring  was,  fated  never  to  know  fellow  waters 
and  merrily  to  wander  with  them  out  into  the  world, 
nevertheless  it  was  spared  all  contamination  and  was 
privileged  to  sink  to  its  last  rest  as  clean  and  pure 
as  when  its  first  rippling  smile  received  the  sun's  first 
kiss. 

A  merry  fire  blazed  at  the  tail  end  of  the  chuck 
wagon.  About  it  were  sitting  sixteen  punchers,  feed- 
ing from  tin  plates  and  cups,  gorging  on  beans,  beef, 
and  baking-powder  biscuits,  washed  down  with  coffee 
strong  enough  to  float  an  egg,  men  with  the  ferocious 
hunger  of  the  wolf,  and  the  case-hardened  stomach 
of  the  ostrich.  They  were  of  all  ages  from  sixteen  to 
sixty,  but  most  of  them  under  thirty,  all  grimy  with 
the  dust,  and  several  reeking  with  the  blood  of  the 
day's  work  in  the  corrals. 

It  was  plain  I  was  downright  welcome  to  the  bunch, 
but  in  a  way  that  boded  anything  but  good  for  me. 
While  no  life  of  greater  privation  and  hardship  than 
the  cowboy's  ever  existed,  unless  that  in  the  forecastle 
of  a  wind  jammer,  no  merrier,  jollier  lot  ever  lived, 
always  "joshing"  each  other,  turning  a  jest  on 
[80] 


THE    MAKING    OF    A    COWBOY 

every  condition  in  life,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
but  one — home  and  mammy,  a  subject  on  which  tones 
always  lowered,  eyes  softened  and  sometimes  grew 
misty. 

A  glance  about  the  circle  explained  the  warmth  of 
my  welcome.  I  was  the  only  tenderfoot  in  camp !  Thus 
the  odds  were  sixteen  to  one.  I  was  in  for  trouble,  and 
it  was  not  long  coming. 

I  nearly  stalled  at  the  rude  fare,  and  ate  little. 

"  Kid,"  drawled  Tobacco  Jake,  "  ef  you  reckons 
to  tote  that  full  grown  gun  all  day  to-morrow,  yu 
better  ile  yer  jints  with  sow  belly  an'  fill  up  all  th' 
holler  places  inside  yu  with  beans  an'  biscuit;  yu 
shore  look  like  yu  hadn't  had  no  man's  grub  in  a 
month." 

I  replied  I  had  been  something  of  an  invalid,  and 
that  it  was  true  my  physical  condition  was  hardly  up 
to  par. 

"  Look  yere.  Kid,"  replied  Jake,  "  ef  yu  caint  talk 
our  langwidge,  you  jus  make  signs.  What'n  hell  yu 
tryin'  to  say,  anyway  ?  " 

Before  I  could  reply.  Jack  Talbot  cut  in : 

"  He  shore  do  look  like  a  doggie  "  (a  motherless 

calf)   "  't  haint  got  used  t'  eatin'  grass.  Gee,  but 

won't  the  beans  rattle  in  his  craw  when  he  climbs  his 

first  bronc!  'Bout  two  jumps  an'  a  twist  an'  I  allow 

[31] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

he'll  jes  nachallj  fall  t'  pieces,  'n'  we'll  have  t'  bunch 
th'  r^-mains  in  a  war  sack  'n'  send  'em  t'  his  ma." 

"  Bet  you  my  gun  agin  yer  silver  trimmed  spade 
bit  th'  fust  jump  fetches  him,  an'  it's  us  t'  pick  up  th' 
chips,"  cheerfully  suggested  Jake. 

"  Wouldn't  let  him  fork  one  o'  my  top  cutters 
bareback  fer  nuthin',"  was  the  pleasantly  impersonal 
comment  of  Llano  Lew,  "  he's  so  ga'nted  up  an'  thin 
he'd  give  it  worse  saddle  galls  than  airy  ole  horse- 
eatin'  Mexico  tree  't  ever  crossed  th'  Rio  Grand." 

Another  happy  thought  struck  Jake,  and  out  it 
came : 

"  Say,  fellers,  I  allow  his  folks  w'd  sort  a  hke  to 
plant  him  in  th'  fam'ly  stiff  lot,  but  they  shore  won't 
be  willin'  to  be  set  back  much  payin'  freight  on  his 
busted  carcass.  Le's  see  ef  we-uns  caint  he'p  'em  out. 
When  he  do  come  apart,  le's  see  ef  we  caint  load  him 
in  his  own  gun — looks  like  he'd  jes  about  chamber  in 
her — 'n'  jes  nachally  shoot  him  back  whar  he  cum 
from,  'n'  save  um  th'  ^^-press  price." 

These  were  only  a  few  of  the  more  refined  and 
agreeable  sallies  that  greeted  me  my  first  evening  in 
cow  camp.  In  fact,  I  was  beginning  to  get  pretty  hot 
in  the  collar,  when  at  length  a  friendly  voice  spoke, 
that  of  Tex,  a  man  I  soon  learned  to  trust,  and  later 
to  love,  who  through  many  years  stood  as  steadfastly 
[32] 


THE    MAKING    OF   A   COWBOY 

my  friend  as  on  this  night  of  the  little  tenderfoot's 
first  trials. 

"  Fellers,"  he  quietly  observed,  "  jest  shet  y'r 
yawp,  pronto!  Let  the  kid  alone — it's  me  sayin'  it. 
Course  he  ain't  goin'  to  keep  up  with  no  leaders  on 
th'  circle,  but  I've  got  a  fool  idee  he  won't  be  so  fer 
behind  we'll  lose  him  none." 

I  was  the  subject  of  no  more  open  comments  that 
night,  but  until  the  last  pair  were  asleep  there  were 
whispers  and  snickers  that  left  no  doubt  they  were 
still  having  their  fun  at  my  expense. 

By  dawn  the  next  morning  we  were  routed  out  by 
the  cook,  and  by  good  sun-up  had  finished  breakfast 
and  were  in  the  corrals  for  the  day's  work  at  tally- 
branding. 

The  great  pens  were  filled  with  wild  range  cattle, 
the  gather  of  the  last  round-up,  old  and  young.  The 
golden  duns,  pale  yellows,  light  reds  and  piebald 
black  and  whites,  all  with  great,  wide-spreading 
horns  characteristic  of  the  old  Spanish  stock  of 
southern  Texas,  predominated,  with  here  and  there 
the  short  horns,  dark  red  and  greater  bulk  of  a  Dur- 
ham cross,  the  bald  face  of  a  Hereford,  or  the  horn- 
less head  and  solid  black  colour  of  a  Polled  Angus. 

And  wild  indeed  they  were,  looked  and  acted  it — 
eyes  blazing,  horns  shaking  threateningly,  surging 
[  33  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

back  and  forth  across  the  corral,  sometimes  in  solid 
mass,  an  irresistible  tide  stopped  only  by  the  heavy 
walls  of  the  pen,  sometimes  moving  in  winding  coun- 
ter currents  like  the  waters  of  an  eddy,  bulls  bellow- 
ing, cows  lowing,  steers  snorting,  calves  "  blatting," 
a  mass  of  colour  shifting  and  brilliant  as  any  ever 
seen  in  a  kaleidoscope. 

And  into  this  sea  of  tossing  horns  it  was  ours  to 
jump  and  work  all  day — on  foot! 

And  jump  it  was  all  day,  and  keep  your  eyes  about. 

A  fire  was  quickly  lighted,  and  the  branding-irons 
laid  in  it,  heating  for  their  cruel  task. 

Along  one  side  of  the  corral  ran  a  narrow  chute 
long  enough  to  hold  twenty  animals,  standing  heads 
to  tails,  the  outer  end  opening  on  the  prairie,  the  in- 
ner on  a  close-pen  thirty  feet  in  diameter. 

This  close-pen  was  filled  with  cattle  from  the  main 
corral,  driven  in  by  the  dismounted  punchers,  yelling 
and  swinging  clubs  or  anything  we  could  lay  our 
hands  on. 

Then  from  this  pen  the  chute  was  filled,  the  rear 
end  barred,  and  in  five  minutes  two  or  three  men 
handling  the  irons  had  lightly  hair-branded  the  im- 
prisoned beasts,  the  outer  gate  was  opened,  and  they 
were  released,  bounding  out  to  freedom,  bawling  from 
the  pain  of  the  iron. 

[34] 


THE    MAKING   OF   A   COWBOY 

And,  bar  an  hour  for  dinner  at  mid-day,  so  this 
round  was  repeated  till  nearly  dark,  when  the  corrals 
were  emptied. 

While  no  work  could  be  harder,  and  few  tasks  in- 
volve less  of  ever-present  momentary  peril  to  limb  or 
life,  while  the  foreman  was  a  mean,  ill-natured  brute, 
often  needlessly  exacting,  cursing  at  a  moment's 
pause  in  the  work,  and  cordially  hated  by  all,  while 
begrimed  and  often  half-blinded  by  dust  and  smoke 
and  sweat,  never  have  I  seen  schoolboys  merrier  at 
their  play,  fuller  of  jests,  pranks,  and  rough  horse 
play  than  were  these  cow-punchers  at  their  work. 

In  mid-afternoon  my  friend,  Tobacco  Jake,  near 
met  his  finish.  While  working  over  the  chute,  a  great 
bull  made  a  savage  dig  at  him,  the  dull,  rounded 
point  of  one  horn  landing  on  Jake's  jaw,  fracturing 
it  and  laying  him  out  so  stiff  we  thought  for  some 
time  he  was  surely  done  for. 

The  trend  of  sympathy  was  expressed  by  Llano 
Lew: 

"  Pow'ful  hard  luck  on  Jake,  bustin'  his  talk  box. 
Reckon  he'd  ruther  stay  daid  'n'  come  to  ef  he  knowed 
it.  'N'  ef  he  do  stay  daid,  he  shore  won't  make  no 

very  d d  sociable  ghost,  onless  he  meets  up  with 

sperits  't  knows  Injun  sign-talk." 

All  day  long  I  had  been  getting  a  continuous 
[35] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

*'  joshing  " — mock  sympathy  for  my  weakness  and 
feigned  anxiety  for  my  safety:  if  an  angry  beast 
charged  my  way,  one  or  more  of  the  boys  would  push 
me  aside  and  take  my  place,  while  others  strove  to 
turn  the  charge ;  when  it  came  in  my  way  to  pick  up 
anything  from  the  ground,  no  matter  how  insignifi- 
cantly small  and  light,  one  or  more  pair  of  hands 
were  instantly  reached  out  to  help  me  lift  it,  and 
when  my  face  was  observed  streaming  with  sweat, 
one  or  another  would  solicitously  try  to  wipe  it  with 
the  slack  of  a  loose  bandana  neckerchief. 

By  evening  my  amour  propre  was  downright  raw, 
and  I  was  resolved  to  make  the  first  play  that  offered 
to  lift  myself  in  my  mates'  esteem.  Just  at  the  close  of 
the  day's  work  the  chance  came. 

As,  through  the  late  afternoon,  the  numbers  in  the 
main  corral  rapidly  dwindled  until  few  were  left,  with 
more  room  to  run,  and  evidently  made  nervous  by 
watching  the  mass  of  the  herd  streaming  through  the 
chute  to  the  liberty  of  the  open  range,  those  remain- 
ing became  more  and  more  restive,  and,  as  the  boys 
put  it,  "  hossiile.^'  One  in  particular,  a  lean,  active 
white  two-year-old  heifer,  the  foreman  had  seriously 
warned  all  of  us  to  watch  carefully. 

And  when  at  length  we  sought  to  drive  the  last 
Uttle  lot  of  them  into  the  close-pen,  all  entered  safely, 
[36] 


THE    MAKING    OF    A   COWBOY 

after  two  or  three  trials,  except  this  white  heifer, 
which  charged  back  through  our  yelling,  arm-swing- 
ing line  of  punchers,  that  quickly  broke  to  right  and 
left  at  her  approach,  many  not  stopping  short  of  the 
top  of  the  fence,  a  proceeding  that  struck  me  as 
wholly  undignified.  It  also  seemed  unnecessary,  for 
each  swung  in  his  hands  a  stout  club  of  some  sort, 
heavy  enough  to  stun  or  turn  her,  if  rightly  landed. 

My  hand  weapon  was  a  straight-blade,  short- 
handled  spade,  and  I  quickly  formed  what  seemed  to 
me  the  sound  piece  of  strategy  of  awaiting  her 
charge  (if  she  came  at  me)  until  the  last  second,  and 
then  leaping  aside  and  dropping  her  with  a  blow  be- 
tween the  horns.  Run  from  her  I  resolved  I  would 
not. 

Repeatedly  we  lined  up  and  crowded  her  up  to  the 
gate,  where  she  would  stand  an  instant,  angrily  lash- 
ing her  tail,  and  then  whirl  and  charge,  the  boys 
scattering  out  of  her  course. 

Presently  I  got  what — I  had  thought — I  wanted; 
she  charged  me  straight. 

Quickly  swinging  the  spade  over  my  shoulder  for 
the  blow,  and  shifting  my  feet  slightly  in  a  gather 
for  the  leap  aside,  I  slipped  on  the  now  muddy  ground 
and  fell  flat  on  my  back,  dropping  the  spade  in  the 
effort  to  recover  myself ! 

[37] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

And  no  more  was  I  down  than  the  heifer  was  upon 
me,  head  lowered  and  sharp  horns  pointed  for  the 
coup  de  mort  of  her  race.  But,  surprised  by  my  fall, 
she  braced  her  forefeet  when  a  little  distance  from 
me,  and  literally  slid  through  the  mud  up  to  me  till 
her  two  hoofs  gave  me  a  pretty  good  dig  in  the  ribs, 
then  backed  away  two  or  three  feet,  then  nuzzled  my 
body  and  face  in  inquiry  and  lightly  prodded  me 
with  her  horns  for  any  sign  of  life.  Lying  motionless, 
through  half-closed  lids  I  plainly  saw  the  fury  in  her 
eyes  soften  with  wonder  and  curiosity  however  I  could 
have  gone  dead  so  quickly — and  then  she  lightly 
leaped  across  my  body  and  was  gone ! 

And  nobody  called  me  slow  in  reaching  and  mount- 
ing to  the  security  of  the  nearest  fence  top ! 

It  all  happened  so  quickly  I  actually  hadn't  time 
to  get  scared  or  even  nervous  until  after  it  was  all 
over — and  such  as  I  then  felt  the  boys  quickly 
knocked  out  of  me  with  their  jests. 

"  Hoot !  lad,"  called  Red  Cameron,  the  cook,  "  but 
Auld  Hornie  nigh  got  ye  the  whiles,  hot  off  the  eend 
o'  his  own  kind  o'  weepons.  Gi'n  ye  had  as  muckle 
sense  as  luck,  ye'd  get  yer  eemortality  in  this  wurrld, 
by  livin'  forever !  " 

Then  Llano  Lew : 

"  Mama !  but  who'd  a  thot  th'  kid  was  locoed 
[38] 


THE    MAKING    OF    A    COWBOY 

enough  t'  tackle  a  fightin'  heifer  afoot?  His  thinker 
must  shore  be  as  puny  as  his  carcass.  Ain't  nuthin' 
but  him  'tween  th'  two  Plattes  fool  enough  t'  tackle 
thataway  a  lightweight  two-year-old  hell  bent  fer 

trouble,  like  Miss  Blanco  thar.  D d  ef  we  don't 

have  t'  neck  him  t'  th'  cook  t'  keep  'im  from  killin'  his 
fool  self  'fore  we  hits  the  Pawnee." 

And  again  good  old  Tex  to  my  aid : 

"  You  jes  tighten  th'  latigo  on  that  jaw  o'  yourn. 
'Pears  t'  me  like  th'  kid's  got  a  tol'able  heavy  jag  o' 
sand  mixt  with  his  loco,  uv  a  brand  a  hell  uv  a  sight 
better'n  yourn.  Lew.  Better  see  ef  ye  caint  git  to 
trade  him  some  o'  yer  tongue  ile  fer  some  o'  his  sand. 

D d  ef  I  don't  think  he's  got  right  smart  t' 

spare,  'n'  still  stack  up  with  airy  puncher  in  th' 
pen." 

A  kindly  sentiment  that  won  some  adherents  in  the 
bunch,  as  shown  by  some  awkward  but  friendly  ad- 
vances. 

That  night  beans  and  biscuit  tasted  good  to  me, 
and  the  lumpy  mattress  of  buffalo  grass  felt  better. 

The  next  morning  I  turned  out  rather  stiff  from 
my  first  day's  work,  and  a  bit  sore  from  Miss  Blanco's 
hoofs  and  horns,  but  otherwise  fit  as  a  fiddle. 

Breakfast  over,  in  twenty  minutes  camp  kettles, 
war  sacks  and  beds  were  loaded  into  the  chuck  wagon^ 
[39] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

horses  caught  and  saddled,  and  we  were  mounted  and 
headed  southeast  for  Willow  Creek. 

N.  R.  had  assigned  me  a  string  of  five  horses,  all 
kind  and  gentle,  and  unusually  good  ones,  I  later  real- 
ised, to  intrust  to  a  tenderfoot. 

Average  hands  were  never  assigned  less  than  four 
horses  each  for  range  round-up  work,  and  top  hands 
who  had  the  heavy  work  of  "  cutting  "  the  round-ups, 
separating  the  cattle  wanted  from  those  not  wanted, 
rarely  less  than  seven  or  eight  horses.  And  there  were 
never  too  many  horses,  seldom  enough.  Lacking  corn 
and  all  other  fodder  but  the  native  grasses,  it  was 
only  by  frequent  change  of  mounts  and  long  intervals 
of  rest  for  each  that  they  could  be  kept  in  fair  flesh, 
strong  of  wind  and  limb  and  sound  of  back.  In  the 
saddle  from  dawn  to  dark,  and  then  riding  a  two  to 
three  hours'  turn  at  night  guard  round  the  herd  in 
hand,  fifty  to  seventy  miles  a  day  was  no  more  than 
an  average  distance  daily  covered  by  the  average 
cowboy  on  the  round-up;  and  throughout  a  third  to 
sometimes  more  than  half  the  day  the  pace  was  the 
ponies'  top  speed,  handling  and  turning  wild  cattle 
bent  on  escape. 

Thus  by  the  noon  finish  of  a  morning  circle  sides 
were  lathered,  flanks  drawn,  strength  and  wind  gone, 
and  fresh  mounts  necessary,  while  during  the  after- 
[40] 


THE    MAKING   OF    A   COWBOY 

noon's  work  of  "  cutting  "  the  herd,  the  pace  was  so 
killing  for  the  top  cutters,  with  the  terrible  shock  of 
sudden  sharp  turns  and  short  stops,  that  one  or  two 
changes  were  always  desirable. 

This  first  day  in  the  saddle  on  the  open  range  was 
a  tough  one  on  the  tenderfoot.  The  easiest  saddle  on 
the  rider  in  the  world  once  you  are  used  to  it,  the  cow 
saddle  is  far  harder  to  get  on  comfortable  terms  with 
than  the  flat  pigskin:  it  gives  a  beginner  harder 
cramps  and  tenderer  spots  in  more  parts  of  the  anat- 
omy than  any  punishment  conceivable  short  of  an  in- 
quisition rack.  Thus  by  midday  every  part  of  me 
ached  cruelly,  and  by  night  I  was  so  stiif  and  numb 
that,  when  dismounted,  every  step  was  agony. 

And  by  that  time  I  had  acquired  an  even  greater 
mental  than  bodily  agony.  The  plains  through  which 
we  rode  were  simply  alive  with  great  rattlesnakes, 
some  coiled  comfortably  beneath  the  shade  of  a 
greasewood  or  prickly  pear,  some  stretched  lazily  in 
the  sun,  some  crawling  about,  all  alert  for  mischief, 
quick  to  coil,  rattle  and  strike  at  whatever  ap- 
proached them,  forked  tongues  thrusting  maliciously, 
poison  fangs  gleaming  like  two  miniature  cimeters. 

All  day  long  we  were  scarcely  ever  ten  minutes  out 
of  sight  of  them. 

How  any  living  thing  contrived  to  exist  within 
[41  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

reach  of  those  thousands  of  ever-ready  envenomed 
fangs  was  past  understanding. 

To  ride  among  them  was  bad  enough,  but  nothing 
to  the  horror  of  dismounting  among  them,  while  the 
thought  of  lying  down  in  one's  blankets  at  night 
within  their  jealously  held  territory  was  too  hideous 
a  hazard  to  contemplate. 

And  all  day  long,  when  not  too  busy  roasting  my 
seat  in  the  saddle,  the  boys  were  spinning  to  each 
other  yarns,  conceived  for  the  occasion,  of  a  mate 
awakened  to  find  a  rattler  coiled  upon  his  breast,  of 
another  bitten  from  beneath  the  ambush  of  a  shrub 
when  bending  to  picket  his  horse,  of  yet  another  slip- 
ping into  a  cave  alive  with  them — each  dying,  of 
course,  in  tortures  painted  as  fearsomely  as  they 
knew. 

Indeed,  the  active  actual  peril  from  the  rattlers 
was  at  noon  emphasised.  When,  our  dinner  finished, 
Nigger  Dick,  the  horse  wrangler,  brought  in  the  loose 
horses  to  the  waggon,  some  one  noted  him  sucking  his 
thumb  and  asked  him  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Done  got  stung  by  Br'er  Rattler !  Seed  a  li'l 
young  cottontail  an'  allowed  I  c'd  cotch  him,  but 
hit  done  run  me  ober  de  prickly  pears  'n'  'roun' 
greasewood  patches  twell  my  ole  tongue  wuz  haingin' 
out,  'n'  then  hit  up  'n'  duv  inta  a  hole  jes  es  I  wuz 
[42] 


THE    MAKING    OF   A   COWBOY 

goin'  t'  drap  on  hit.  Yassa,  I  was  sho'  clus  atop  o' 
Br'er  Rabbit,  so  clus  I  runs  my  fool  nigga  airm  inta 
de  hole,  spectin'  t'  get  hit's  hind  paws,  but  staid  o' 
that,  Br'er  Rattler  what  was  layin'  thar,  jcs  riz  up 
f'm  his  noon  ear-poundin',  'n'  pow'ful  mad  at  Br'er 
Rabbit  fer  kickin'  him  in  de  haid,  he  jes  nails  me  good 
on  de  f o'  paw,  'n'  when  I  j  erks  away,  out  paht  way  he 
comes  twell  one  o'  his  old  toofs  slips  out  'n'  th'  otha 
one  she  jes  bruck  off  'n'  stay  stickin'  in  Dick's  fumb. 
But  I  shore  dug  him  out  'n'  bruck  him  apaht,  'foh  I 
quit !  'N'  all  de  time,  I  'lows,  Br'er  Rabbit  wuz  sittin' 
deepa  down  de  hole  alafin'  at  Dick.  Hell!  but  hit  do 
hu't!" 

And  indeed  his  hand  and  arm  were  already  badly 
swollen.  Promptly  one  of  the  boys  drew  the  bullet 
from  a  pistol  cartridge,  took  a  knife  and  deeply 
gashed,  almost  hashed,  the  thumb  all  about  the  two 
tiny  punctures,  then  poured  the  powder  over  the 
wound  and  fired  it  with  a  match !  A  crude  method  of 
cauterising,  it  certainly  seemed  effective.  Anyway, 
whether  due  to  Dick's  sucking  his  thumb  or  to  the 
rude  cowboy  surgery,  the  inflammation  went  no 
further  and  Dick  made  a  quick  recovery. 

That  night  it  took  more  nerve  to  lie  down  in  my 
blankets  in  rattler  land  than  I  had  needed  the  day 
before  to  face  Miss  Blanco ! 

r  43  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

But  as  matter  of  fact,  as  I  later  learned — so 
much  later  it  did  me  no  good  on  this  trip — rat- 
tlers are  never  night  prowlers  on  the  plains,  and 
"  hole  up  "  so  soon  as  the  chill  of  night  comes  on ; 
and  indeed  now,  after  years  on  the  range,  Dick 
remains  the  only  man  I  ever  personally  knew  bitten 
by  a  rattler. 

On  this  rodeo  we  were  out  about  a  month,  round- 
ing up  first  the  Crow  Creek  and  Pawnee  Butte  coun- 
try, thence  swinging  up  the  South  Platte  River  to 
Fremont's  Orchard,  thence  to  the  sink  of  Willow 
Creek  and  up  Willow  toward  the  home  ranch. 

The  first  forty-eight  hours  I  developed  an  appetite 
and  a  capacity  for  sleep  never  known  before. 

In  a  week  I  was  fairly  hardened  to  sixteen  to 
eighteen  hours  a  day  in  the  saddle,  most  of  the  time 
on  the  jump. 

In  a  fortnight  I  had  accomplished  a  modest  but 
certain  entry  into  the  mysteries  of  brands,  ear-marks, 
"  dulaps,"  "  wattles,"  etc. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  I  could  pitch  and  swing 
a  riata  tolerably,  and,  notwithstanding  sundry  more 
or  less  hard  falls  incident  to  unwary  steps  in  prairie 
dog  holes,  running  over  calves,  cowboy's  tricks,  etc., 
had  acquired  a  four-year-old,  full-grown  faith  in  my 
saddle  seat. 


THE    MAKING    OF   A   COWBOY 

And  it  was  precisely  for  this  latter  I  had 
been  waiting  and  working  hardest.  For  the  boys' 
"  joshing  "  never  ceased — I  was  too  good  a  thing 
to  miss. 

The  favourite  subject  of  their  jests  and  tricks  was 
my  early  awkwardness  and  insecurity  in  the  saddle, 
a  fact  they  easily  proved  by  the  simple  experiment 
of  sticking  a  prickly  pear  bulb  beneath  my  horse's 
tail  after  I  had  mounted.  While,  of  course,  the  trick 
was  always  played  behind  my  back,  I  was  never  long 
in  discovering  it.  Instantly  the  horse  began  bucking 
furiously  to  lose  the  pear,  and  always  finished  by  los- 
ing me  first.  As  a  "  pear  buster  "  I  was  a  dismal 
failure,  but  as  a  side-splitter  for  the  boys  I  was  a 
howling  success. 

But  all  the  time  I  was  learning  more  of  the  knee 
and  lower  leg  grip,  the  balance  and  "  swing  "  need- 
ful to  keep  rider  and  bucker  from  parting  company — 
till  presently  one  day,  early  the  fourth  week,  I  re- 
solved to  make  a  play  that,  win  or  lose,  could  not  fail 
to  largely  stop  the  galling  chaff  I  was  getting  so 
tired  of. 

An  "  outlaw  "  is  a  horse  fuller  of  years  than  hon- 
ours, spoiled  by  needless  cruelty  in  the  early  break- 
mg,  spoiled  so  completely  that  he  is  "  bad  "  to  the  end 
of  his  days,  either  as  bucker,  kicker,  striker,  biter, 
[46] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

backfaller,  etc.,  and  usually  master  of  all  these  ac- 
complishments, a  fighter  in  one  or  all  of  these  ways 
every  time  he  is  saddled. 

"  Walkingbars "  was  freely  conceded  to  be  the 
worst  outlaw  in  the  N.  D.  outfit,  a  great  yellow-eyed, 
Roman-nosed,  ewe-necked,  long-barrelled,  heavy-quar- 
tered buckskin.  Every  trick  of  the  evil  equine  "  Walk- 
ingbars "  knew,  and  he  had  the  power  to  do  these 
tricks  longer  and  harder  than  any  horse  I  have  ever 
since  seen. 

When  "  Walkingbars  "  got  down  to  earnest  pitch- 
ing it  seemed — and  usually  proved — as  hard  to  stop 
him  as  to  stay  the  mighty  swing  of  a  side-wheeler's 
walking-beam — and  hence,  I  dare  say,  his  name. 

"  Walkingbars "  was  in  the  mount  of  a  wiry 
little  Mexican,  Jose,  who  managed  to  handle  him, 
but  was  tired  of  the  task  and  constantly  cursing 
him. 

I  decided  to  add  "  Walkingbars  "  to  my  mount. 

He  might  and  probably  would  do  a  lot  of  things 
to  me,  but  nothing  I  dreaded  more  than  "  Tender- 
foot," and  the  chaif  and  tricks  that  went  with  the 
name,  and  it  was  to  shake  these  annoyances  at  one 
stroke  that,  one  morning  on  the  circle,  I  proposed  to 
trade  Jose  my  top  horse,  "  Goldie,"  for  "  Walking- 
bars." 

[46] 


THE    MAKING    OF    A   COWBOY 

"  Madre  de  Dios!  muchacho,  he  keela  you,  keela 
you  sure ;  but  if  you  weesh,  you  heem  have,  y  que  Dios 
te  a  guar  da!  " 

So  the  trade  was  settled,  Jose  promising  to  say 
nothing  of  it  to  the  boys. 

When,  therefore,  at  the  noon  camp  the  horses  were 
run  into  the  rope  pen,  made  of  lariats  outstretched 
from  the  chuck  wagon  wheels,  and  I  pitched  my  rope 
over  "  Walkingbar's "  head  and  dragged  him  out 
of  the  bunch,  there  was  a  profound  sensation. 

"  Now,  Tender,"  called  Llano  Lew,  "  yu  shore  ha' 
raised  hell  droppin'  y'r  string  on  ole  'Bars!  How'n 
hell  yu  reckon  yu  goin'  t'  git  loose  fore  he  cotches 
an'  swallers  yu?  'N'  then  how'n  hell  we-uns  goin'  t' 
get  yu'  pesky  little  pusson  outen  him  ?  " 

And  all  the  time  old  "  'Bars  "  was  surging  on  the 
rope  and  dragging  me  about,  snorting,  rearing,  and 
striking.  Just  then  I  myself  would  have  been  glad  to 
know  of  some  way  to  get  loose  with  some  shred  of 
dignity,  but  the  play  was  made  and  had  to  be  fin- 
ished. 

It  took  a  lot  of  time  and  patience,  and  nearly  wore 
me  out,  but  finally  I  worked  up  the  rope  hand  over 
hand  until,  dodging  his  strikes,  I  succeeded  in  slip- 
ping a  half-hitch  over  his  nose,  and  then  there  was 
another  long  tussle  before  I  could  approach  him. 

[47] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

When  at  length  I  again  got  in  arm's  reach,  I  began 
gingerly  to  rub  his  nose,  scratch  his  head,  and  pat 
his  neck,  and — ^wonder  of  wonders — he  actually  stood 
still,  apparently  in  sheer  astonishment  to  meet  a 
puncher  that  neither  yelled  at,  struck,  nor  jerked 
him! 

Presently  I  got  a  lump  of  sugar  in  his  mouth — and 
then  a  second.  It  tasted  good,  and  the  wicked  eyes 
glared  less  balefuUy,  the  nervous  ears  drooped  lazily, 
the  resentful  muscles  relaxed,  and  old  "  'Bars  "  stood 
quietly  at  ease! 

Then  I  softly  slipped  my  bridle  from  the  back  of 
my  belt,  slowly  approached  it  to  his  head,  gently, 
very  gently,  pressed  the  tongue  of  the  bit  into  the 
side  of  his  mouth,  and  he  received  it  (along  with  an- 
other lump  of  sugar !),  and  a  moment  later  I  had  the 
headstall  over  his  ears. 

"  Walkingbars  "  stood  bridled,  a  trick  never  ac- 
complished by  Jose  himself,  in  the  rough  way  he 
went  at  it,  until  after  a  hard  ten  to  fifteen  minutes' 
fight. 

And  the  explanation  was  easy.  Old  "  'Bars  "  was 
simply  stunned  with  wonder  to  find  a  puncher  who 
didn't  try  to  jam  his  teeth  down  his  throat  with  the 
cruel  bit  steel:  why  shouldn't  he  let  such  have  his 
will? 

[48] 


:  '/Mi 


Kl-i,-«.-.K«>6ily 


'That  yell  was  nearly  my  undoing" 


THE    MAKING   OF   A   COWBOY 

Then  came  the  saddle,  and  it  took  a  lot  of  diplo- 
macy and  time  to  place  and  cinch  it,  for  old  "  'Bars  " 
was  handy  with  whirling  kicks,  one  of  which  would 
cave  one's  chest  in. 

Once  during  the  saddling  he  came  out  of  his  trance 
and  fought  me,  but  with  patience  and  more  patting — • 
and  another  lump  of  sugar — ^he  was  again  quieted 
till  the  saddling  was  finished  and  I  had  him  safely 
tied  to  a  waggon  wheel. 

Approval  was  frank  and  profanely  emphatic. 

"  Wal !  I'll  be  good to ,"  remarked 

Jack  Talbot,  "  ef  that  don'  beat  th'  Comanches.  Th' 
kid  shore  must  have  pow'ful  Injun  medicine,  'ts  too 
strong  fer  ole  '  'Bars.'  I'd  a  neve'  believed  the'  was 
airy  puncher  'tween  th'  Gulf  an'  Canidy  could  bridle 
an'  saddle  ole  '  'Bars  '  thataway,  'thout  fitin'  him  all 
ove'  a  five-acre  lot. 

"  An'  we  be'n  calHn'  of  yu  '  Tende  ' ! 

"  Ef  yu  was  willin'  t'  shake  with  me,  Mistah  Kid, 
I  would  conside'  hit  a  honou',"  and  we  shook,  "  fo'  yu 
shorely  has  a  medicine  bag  fo'  outlaws  hid  out  about 
yu  pusson  that  'd  make  Jeff  Gerry  or  th'  Pinneos 
look  like  plough  pushers.  But,  fo'  th'  love  o'  home  an' 
mammy,  yu  don^  allow  t'  climb  that  ole  yaller  hell- 
twister,  does  yu.f*  His  naick's  too  long  fo'  yu  t'  get  t' 
whispa'  in  his  ea',  like  yu  be'n  doin',  'n'  ef  he  forgits 
[49] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

th'  purtys  yu  be'n  promisin'  him,  yu  can  bet  yu'r 
alee  no  roll,  or  stirrup  tyin',  or  leather  grabin'  '11 
keep  yu  from  gettin'  throwed  so  fur  it  '11  take  yu  a 
week  t'  walk  back  to  camp,  ef  yu  has  any  sound  bones 
left  t'  walk  on." 

And  when,  a  half  hour  later,  I  led  out  old  "  'Bars," 
after  first  secretly  slipping  him  yet  another  bit  of 
sugar,  while  the  boys  sat  their  horses  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, coiled  my  rope  and  held  the  loose  coils  in  my 
left  hand,  seized  reins  and  headstall  with  the  left,  and 
gently  bent  old  "  'Bars's  "  head  toward  me,  and  then 
caught  stirrup,  grabbed  saddle-horn,  and  swung 
slowly  into  the  saddle  and  quietly  fastened  my  rope 
with  the  horn  string,  a  wild  yell  of  approval  rose 
from  the  boys  that  was  near  being  my  undoing. 

Till  it  came  "  Walkingbars  "  had  stood  perfectly 
quiet,  but  a  cowboy  yell  was  old  "  'Bars's  "  tocsin  of 
war,  and  for  a  time  it  broke  the  spell  of  my  "  medi- 
cine," and  came  near  smashing  me. 

He  lit  into  such  bucking  as  I  had  never  dreamed  I 
could  stand  a  second,  but,  hooking  spurs  in  cinch  and 
pulling  leather  ignominiously,  I  contrived  to  stay  on 
him  for  perhaps  a  dozen  jumps,  when  lo,  a  miracle! 
Suddenly  he  stopped  stock  still,  bent  his  neck  and 
gazed  back  in  my  face  with  a  "  that's-the-sugar-cup- 
and-I-better-not-break-it  "  look  in  his  eyes. 
[60] 


THE    MAKING    OF   A   COWBOY 

And  when  I  lightly   shook  the  reins,  he  quietly 
trotted  up  to  the  waiting  group  of  boys. 
As  I  joined  them,  I  heard  Tex  remark: 
"  Lew,  does  yu  allow  it's  loco  or  sense  an'  sand  th' 
Kid's  sufferin'  most  from?  " 


[51] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

THE  TENDERFOOT'S  TRIALS 

A  FTER  the  conquest — for  the  time  being,  at 

/jk       least,    complete — of    "  Walkingbars,"    the 

JL    JLm  worst  outlaw  bronco  in  the  N.  D.  brand,  I 

felt  the  crisis  of  my  trials  as  a  tenderfoot  was  passed. 

But  this  proved  erroneous — widely. 

Most  of  the  punchers  hailed  my  success  with 
"  Walkingbars "  with  satisfaction,  and  showed 
me  a  cordiality  that  made  me  feel  that  I  had  at 
least  one  foot  drawn  out  of  the  slough  of  tender- 
footdom. 

But  one  man  seemed  actually  to  resent  my  good 
fortune — the  evil-tempered  foreman.  Con  Hum- 
phreys. He  may  not  have  wanted  me  killed  outright, 
but  he  certainly  did  seem  to  want  to  see  me  more  or 
less  maimed  or  disfigured.  Indeed,  the  only  thing  that 
made  at  all  endurable  his  general  mental  attitude 
toward  the  outfit  at  large  and  each  puncher  in  par- 
ticular, was  the  fact  that  he  seemed  to  hate  himself 
quite  as  cordially  as  he  did  the  rest  of  us.  His  was  a 
[52] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

mirthless  life,  devoid  even  of  any  sense  of  pleasure 
except  when  engaged  in  inflicting  some  needless  cru- 
elty he  judged  could  not  be  resented. 

Already  Humphreys  had  been  stacking  me  up 
against  the  toughest  and  some  of  the  riskiest  tasks 
of  round-up  work ;  tasks  to  try  the  skill  and  nerve  of 
the  oldest  rawhide  of  them  all;  and  when,  as  often 
happened,  I  acquitted  myself  none  too  well,  he  sneered 
at  and  abused  me  all  he  dared  with  a  protege  of  his 
boss,  N.  R. 

The  very  morning  after  I  first  saddled  and  rode 
"  Walkingbars,"  and  it  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  his 
shrewd  equine  brain  that  it  paid  well  to  curb  his 
savage  temper  and  permit  mastery  to  a  puncher  who 
handled  him  gently  and  spoke  to  him  kindly.  Con's 
malignant  disposition  cropped  out  anew. 

When  out  an  hour  from  the  lower  Willow  corral, 
the  herd  in  hand  strung  out  a  mile  or  more  along  the 
winding  trail  up-stream,  a  many-tinted  ribbon  of 
bright  colour  moving  ever  forward  across  the  endless 
rolling  sea  of  pale  yellow  buffalo  grass,  seen  upon  the 
hillocks  and  disappearing  in  the  swales,  the  little 
Mexican,  Jose,  rode  back  into  the  dense  dust  clouds 
at  the  rear  of  the  herd,  where,  with  two  others,  I  was 
shouting  and  pounding  along  the  "  drags  " — the 
lame,  the  lazy,  the  footsore,  and  the  young — alto- 
[53] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

gether  the  rottenest  task  about  a  moving  herd,  and 
asked : 

"  Keed,  you  see  ol'  *  'Bars  '  thees  mornin'  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"  You  go  remouda  looka  heem ;  I  teks  you  place 
few  meenits,  latigando  estos  didblos  de  muertos.'* 

So  I  loped  over  to  the  remouda  a  few  hundred 
yards  away,  where  the  horse  wrangler  was  slowly 
drifting  and  grazing  his  charges. 

As  usual,  old  "  'Bars  "  was  well  out  on  the  flank  of 
the  bunch,  flocking  by  his  lonesome.  And  it  needed 
only  a  glance  to  note  that  his  jacemo  had  been  re- 
moved. 

The  jacemo  is  a  stout  headstall  made  of  horsehair, 
then  always  used  in  bronco  breaking  and  handling, 
either  instead  of,  or  in  connection  with,  a  bridle. 
With  only  a  riata  loop  about  a  bronco's  neck  he 
could  drag  one  about  corral  or  over  prairie  for  half 
an  hour  before  you  could  pretend  to  try  to  place  a 
saddle,  but  with  the  end  of  a  riata  fastened  to  the  loop 
of  a  jacemo's  nose-band,  every  pull  meant  stronger 
smothering  pressure  over  his  nostrils,  and  he  soon 
ceased  steady  heavy  pull  on  the  rope. 

Usually  after  a  few  days'  handling  the  jacemo  was 
no  longer  necessary  with  the  average  bronco,  but 
with  old  "  'Bars  "  it  could  never  be  dispensed  with. 
[54] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

Without  one  on  his  head  it  was  utterly  impossible 
to  bridle  and  saddle  him,  and  to  put  a  jacemo  on  him 
needed  that  he  be  roped  by  the  forelegs  and  thrown, 
and  "  hog-tied  " — his  four  feet  bunched  and  lashed 
fast  together  with  half-hitches,  helpless — a  job  evi- 
dently yet  far  beyond  me. 

Who  could  have  played  me  the  foul  trick  of  re- 
moving "  'Bars's  "  headstall  I  could  not  fancy — un- 
less Con  himself. 

I  hurried  back  to  the  "  drags  "  and  questioned 
Jose.  He  answered : 

"  Inmediatamente  bafo'  we  leev  de  camp,  I  see  ese 
diahlo  Con  cut  heem  off.  Ef  I  you,  I  shoot  hell  out 
heem  pronto  an'  go  on  scout.  You  say  siy  I  halp  you, 
me!" 

Jose  meant  it,  every  word,  for  he,  next  to  me,  had 
been  most  frequently  a  victim  of  Con's  meanness.  But 
I  merely  thanked  him,  asked  him  to  keep  my  place 
with  the  drags  till  my  return,  and  trotted  forward 
where  Tex  rode  in  the  lead  swing,  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred yards  behind  Con's  position  on  the  left  point  of 
the  herd. 

Good  old  Tex  heard  my  story  and  my  statement 
that  I  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  call  Con  down  or 
turn  in  my  string  of  horses  and  quit  the  outfit,  and 
then  softly  drawled: 

[55] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

"  Kid,  it  is  shore  up  to  yu  t'  go  on  th'  prod.  Horn 
him  wi'  th'  meanest  cuss  words  ju  knows,  'specially 
'bout  his  closest  kin  folk,  'n'  tell  him  if  he  monkeys 
wi'  yu  o'  yu  string  agin  yu'U  hang  his  skelp  on  yu 
lodge  pole.  Ef  he  bats  a  eye  o'  makes  airy  move  fo' 
his  gun,  git  him,  'n'  do  it  pow'ful  quick.  Cou'se  you 
caint  shoot  none  sudden  like  him,  so  yu  jes  stay  's 
clus  t'  him  's  if  yu  was  sittin'  up  wi'  yu  best  gal,  'n' 
th'  fust  move  he  makes  yu  jerks  yu  gun  'n'  bends  her 
good  'n'  plenty  ove'  that  misshaped  co'kee'nut  he 
we'as  en  place  o'  a  haid,  'n'  then  yu  bend  her  back 
straight  wi'  anotha  lick.  I'll  sorta  drift  along  afte' 
yu,  'thin  easy  gun  range,  'n'  ef  he  gets  yu.  Kid,  it'll 
be  th'  last  gun  game  he'll  git  to  ante  in,  'n'  then 
it'll  be  Tex  fer  th'  scout.  But  we'll  make  her  a  squar' 
play ;  I  won't  chip  in  'fore  yu're  down." 

This  cheering  proposal  was  inspired  in  part,  no 
doubt,  by  a  growing  friendship  for  me,  but  largely 
by  a  profound  dislike  for  the  foreman. 

I  rode  forward  to  Con.  Hearing  my  approach,  he 
looked  back  with  an  ugly  scowl,  and  called : 

"  What'n  hell  you  doin'  here,  you  or'nery  kid.? 
Didn't  I  leave  you  along  o'  the  drags  'n'  doggies  yu 
belongs  with.''  " 

"  Yes,  Humphreys,  you  did,"  I  replied,  "  and  I'm 
ready  to  try  to  do  my  best  at  whatever  job  you  put 
[56] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

me  on,  but  I'm  up  here  now  to  tell  you  you've  got  to 
quit  your  abuse ;  quit  your  tricks  with  my  string  of 
horses  and  limit  your  deahngs  with  me  to  plain  orders 
in  the  regular  line  of  work." 

For  a  minute  or  two  he  was  silent  with  astonish- 
ment. Then  he  burst  out: 

"  What'n  damnation  yu  kickin'  about  now, 
yu " 

"  Cut  out  the  description  or  settle  here.  Con,"  I 
interrupted.  "  I  specially  refer  to  your  cutting  the 
jacemo  off  *  'Bars  '  this  morning." 

"  Huh!  Did  yu  see  it  done?  " 

"  No,  but  others  did,"  I  answered. 

"  Wal,"  he  snarled,  "  whoever  says  I  done  it  's  a 
d n  Har." 

"  You'll  not  tell  Jose  that,"  I  suggested. 

He  straightened  in  the  saddle,  shortened  rein, 
tightened  knee  grip,  and  truculently  growled: 

"  Wal,  s'pose  I  did,  what'n  hell  you  goin'  to  do 
about  it.?  Blat  t'  old  N.  R.,  I  reckon ! " 

"  No,  Con,  nothing  of  the  sort.  You're  going  to 
order  the  men  to  throw  '  'Bars  '  at  the  noon  camp, 
and  put  on  him  a  new  jacemo,  and  you're  going  to 
settle  with  me  for  any  new  outrage  you  try  to  play ; 
it'll  be  just  the  two  of  us,"  and  I  lightly  touched 
my  spur  to  my  pony's  side,  and  moved  him  uj) 
[57] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

till  my  right  knee  was  nearly  touching  his  left, 
within  the  easy  reach  of  his  "  cocoanut "  as  Tex 
had  advised. 

For  full  two  minutes,  I  should  think,  we  sat  gazing 
into  each  other's  eyes,  every  muscle  tense  and  sense 
alert,  he  studying  whether  to  venture  upon  offence, 
I  intent  to  draw  and  strike  before  he  could  draw  and 
shoot.  The  position  was  perfect  for  my  plan,  for  his 
head  was  defenceless  against  a  blow  except  by  re- 
leasing his  bridle  rein,  leaving  his  horse  momentarily 
unmanageable,  or  by  spurring  away  from  me,  and 
against  the  latter  move  I  was  hedging  by  readiness 
to  plunge  my  spurs  into  my  horse's  flank. 

A  face  fuller  of  malice  and  murder  I  never  con- 
fronted; big-eared  and  peaked  like  a  wolf's,  but 
shifty-eyed  and  currish  as  a  coyote,  a  face  conveying 
no  fear  of  a  frontal  attack,  but  promising  large 
hazard  of  ambush ;  the  face  of  an  assassin,  but  not  of 
a  fighter. 

Still  the  provocation,  from  his  stand-point,  was 
great,  and  had  wrought  in  him  a  rage  nigh  impos- 
sible to  curb. 

Presently  the  near-by  neigh  of  a  horse  behind  him 
caused  him  to  quickly  turn  his  head — to  see  old  Tex 
idly  sitting  his  horse  seventy-five  yards  away,  his  .44} 
Winchester  plainly  loosened  and  partly  drawn  from 

[58] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

the  scabbard,  his  right  hand  caressing  the  stock,  ap- 
parently watching  the  moving  herd  but  at  an  angle 
that  left  us  well  within  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

Instantly  he  realised  Tex  had  either  scented  trouble 
or  been  told  of  it,  and  was  there  to  pot  him  on  the 
slightest  excuse. 

Then  the  hard  lines  of  his  face  relaxed,  and,  with  a 
surly  grin,  he  spoke: 

"  Why,  Kid,  'pears  t'  me  yu're  pow'ful  het  up 
over  nothin'.  O'  cou'se  takin'  off  '  'Bars's  '  sombrero 
was  part  jest  a  joke  'n'  part  t'  see  ef  yu  couldn't  put 
her  back  on  agin  wi'  one  o'  them  big  medicine  plays 
yu  worked  on  '  'Bars  '  yestiddy.  I  'lowed  you'd  admire 
a  chanct  t'  put  it  all  ove'  th'  boys  by  nachally  talkin' 
ole  '  'Bars  '  intu  beggin'  th'  priv'lege  o'  wearin'  a  new 
bunnet.  O'  cou'se  ef  yu  'lows  yu  medicine  ain't  that 

strong,  we'll  throw  th'  ole an'  slap  her  on  fer 

yu.  'N'  as  fer  roughin'  o'  yu,  why  hell!  ef  yu  had 
half  th'  sense  yu  'pear  t'  pack  'n'  that  little  nut  o' 
yurn,  yu'd  see  I  ben  tryin'  Con's  best  t'  give  yu  a 
show  fer  th'  biggest  punche'  honahs  'n'  t'  make  yu  a 
top  hand  pronto.  But  it  do  shore  look  like  yu  don't 
'preciate  it,  leavin'  th'  drinks  on  Con  'n'  th'  chamber- 
in'  o'  them  on  yu !  Bet  yur  alee  from  now  on  yu  can 
larn  by  yur  lonesome,  fir's  I'm  consarned." 

And  he  rode  forward  where,  at  his  neglected 
[59] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

"  point,"  the  herd  was  spreading  out  Hke  a  fan,  con- 
tentedly grazing. 

I  turned  back  toward  the  "  drags  "  and  Tex  rode 
with  me  half-way  down  the  long  line  of  the  herd. 

"  Alius  knew  he  was  a  coyote,"  commented  Tex ; 
*'  throws  too  many  John  Branch  ranicaboo  bluffs  o' 
his  own  t'  call  any  one  else's.  He'll  jest  rar'  up  on  his 
haind  laigs  'n'  come  at  yu  wi'  his  mouth  open  like  he 
were  th'  Whale  'n'  yu  Jonah,  'n'  the  fust  flutter  yu 
gives  he  shuts  his  face  hard  'nough  t'  bust  his  nut 
crackers  'n'  drops  on  all  fou's  'n'  scoots  fer  th'  near- 
est bunch  o'  brush.  T'  hell  wi'  such  «7iimiles  anyway ; 
they  shore  do  make  my — ^back  tired !  " 

Thus  relieved,  Tex  reined  West  and  rode  to  his 
place  in  the  "  swing." 

When  at  the  noon  camp  the  horses  were  run  into 
the  ropes  for  catching  the  afternoon  mounts,  Con 
called : 

"  Tex,  drop  yu  twine  on  '  'Bars,'  'n'  Llano,  'n' 
Jack,  yu-all  he'p  him  throw  'n'  tie  '  'Bars  '  'n'  git  his 
haid  intu  my  jacemo." 

Tex  pitched  his  rope  over  "  'Bars's  "  head,  snubbed 
the  end  of  the  rope  about  his  own  hips,  and  as 
"  'Bars  "  bounded  out  of  the  ropes,  braced  feet  for- 
ward and  body  back  for  the  tug.  Notwithstanding 
the  severe  choking  of  the  riata  noose  about  his  neck, 
[60] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

with  all  Tex's  weight  and  strength  straining  at  the 
other  end  of  the  rope,  mad  old  "  'Bars  "  dragged  his 
captor  about  the  prairie  at  almost  racing  speed  a 
good  ten  minutes  before  Llano  could  get  within  cast- 
ing reach  to  noose  his  forefeet.  Then  with  a  sharp 
pull  to  the  left  by  Tex  and  to  the  right  by  Llano, 
down  smash  on  his  side  fell  the  equine  warrior,  and 
before  he  could  gather  Tex  had  a  knee  on  his  neck,  a 
hand  smothering  his  nostrils,  avid  his  muzzle  turned 
skyward,  while  Llano  had  thrown  a  quick  half-hitch 
over  his  left  hind  foot,  and  drawn  it  up  tightly 
against  the  noose  that  bound  the  forefeet. 

Still  this  left  his  good  right  hind  leg  free,  and  it 
swung  with  a  ferocity  and  rapidity  that  looked  like 
he  had  a  score  of  hoofs  free  instead  of  one.  Indeed, 
his  tawny  length  was  darkened  by  an  aureole  of  flying 
black  hoofs  hovering  above  him. 

One  stroke  gave  "  'Bars  "  joy — it  caught  Tex  in 
the  armpit  and  sent  him  sprawling,  freeing  the 
wicked  old  Roman-nosed  head,  and  bringing  new  lust 
and  hope  of  liberty  into  the  blazing  eyes. 

But  rise  he  could  not,  with  three  feet  tightly 
bound,  and  soon  Talbot  lit  on  his  neck  and  again  got 
his  muzzle  upturned. 

All  the  time  Llano  had  been  throwing  half -hitches 
of  his  rope  at  the  flying  hoof. 
[61] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

Presently  one  of  Llano's  throws  landed,  and  a 
moment  later  "  'Bars  "  lay  helpless  "  hog-tied,"  his 
four  feet  securely  lashed  together. 

Then  the  fastening  the  jacemo  on  his  head  was  an 
easy  task,  so  the  vicious  teeth  were  avoided. 

Released,  old  "  'Bars  "  shook  himself,  glared  re- 
sentfully at  his  enemies,  and  trotted  back  into  the 
remouda. 

Coiling  his  rope,  Llano  remarked: 

"  I  shore  neve'  see  that  much  pizon  'n'  hell  wropped 
up  in  airy  hoss  hide  befo'.  '  'Bars '  snaps  like  a 
'gaitor,  springs  like  a  '  painter,'  'n'  strikes  'n'  kicks 
laik  his  legs  was  driv'  by  a  little  ole  steam  injen  in- 
siden  him.  'N'  his  eyes!  Wal,  damn  his  eyes!  I'd 
druther  look  intu  th'  talkin'  end  o'  a  gun  than  t'  have 
ole  *  'Bars  '  draw  his  eyes  on  me  when  he  hits  th'  war 
path.  Jest  looks  like  he'd  foUer  yu  from  Corpus  t' 
Cheyenne  t'  git  yu,  'thout  sleepin'  or  grazin'  on  th' 
way,  'n'  jest  nachally  eat  yu  up  wheneve'  he  cotched 
yu.  Damn  his  old  gory  eyes  anyway !  They  shore  do 
talk  more  war  'n'  I  kin  use.  Kid,  yu  is  sutenly  wel- 
come t'  that  ole  yaller  hellion,  'n'  if  I  was  yu,  I'd  lope 
back  t'  Pawnee  Butte,  climb  her  'n'  sun  dance  thar 
fer  a  week  tryin'  t'  fill  my  medicine  bag  wi'  new  tricks 
'fore  I  tackled  *  'Bars  '  agin — 'n'  then  I'd  jest  jump 
off  that  east  cliff  ruther'n  tackle  him." 
[62] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

To  give  him  time  to  cool  off  from  the  indignities 
put  upon  him,  I  waited  a  couple  of  days  before  ven- 
turing any  new  liberties  with  "  Walkingbars."  To 
the  infinite  surprise  of  the  outfit,  he  proved  still  fair- 
ly amenable  to  kindness,  and  so  he  remained  to  the 
end  of  our  association,  bar  an  occasional  exhibition 
of  violence  to  leave  it  plain  his  comparative  tractabil- 
ity  was  due  to  sufferance  rather  than  to  surrender. 

A  few  days  later,  when  we  were  approaching  the 
Owl  Creek  Ranch  and  Con  realised  it  was  nearing  his 
last  chance  to  get  even,  he  took  a  final  fall  out  of  me, 
and  it  was  a  good  one. 

One  morning  at  breakfast  he  called  across  the  camp 
fire: 

"  Kid,  th'  ole  man  told  me  he  wanted  a  good 
fresh  milk  cow  soon's  I  c'd  git  her  t'  him.  We're  a 
week  late  now  gittin'  back,  'n'  I  reckon  he's  pow'ful 
hot  'cause  he  haint  got  her  befo'.  Yestiddy  I  threw 
out  intu  th'  cut  a  shore  dandy,  three  quarter  short- 
horn, 'n'  her  calf — 'ts  jest  about  what  N.  R.  wants. 
When  yu  saddle  up  I'll  cut  th'  pa'r  out  t'  yu  'n'  yu 
kin  run  'em  in  t'  th'  home  ranch — 'ts  only  twenty 
mile,  'n'  if  yur  right  peart  yu  kin  run  'em  in  thar 
agin  noon,  'n'  git  back  t'  camp  t'night — caint  he, 
boys  ?  "  with  a  significant  glance  round  the  circle  of 
punchers  squatted  at  their  breakfast. 
[63] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

I  noted  them  look  at  each  other  in  surprise,  but 
for  a  long  time  none  spoke.  Presently,  however,  Llano 
blurted  out: 

"  By ,  Con,  I'll  bet  yu  my  outfit,  gun,  saddle 

'n'  tricks,  agin  yurn  yu  caint  pick  airy  cow  'n'  calf 
outen  th'  herd  yu  yu'sef,  single-handed,  kin  keep 
bunched  by  ther  lonesomes,  outen  th'  thousands  o' 
loose  range  cattle  that  make  this  plain  look  crowded 
as  a  bee  tepee,  an'  keep  anywhar  near  a  course  with 
'em  fer  five  miles,  Cow'd  be  sure  t'  break  intu  some  o' 
th'  loose  bunches  or  get  on  th'  prod  'n'  stan'  yu  off,  o' 
th'  calf  '11  play  out  'n'  go  into  camp  while  his  mammy 
runs  yu  foot  races  tryen'  t'  lose  yu  from  th'  calf. 
'Sides  they's  no  trail  from  heah  t'  Owl  Creek  Ranch. 
All  yu  c'd  do  'd  be  t'  pint  th'  kid  th'  general  direc- 
tion 'n'  tell  him  t'  chase  his  nose,  'n'  what  'n  hell's 
t'  keep  th'  bead  o'  his  tende'foot  nose  on  old  Owl 
Creek.''  He'd  shore  git  lost  so  hard  it'd  keep  all  th' 
riders  o'  th'  gineral  South  Platte  round-up  a  circlin' 
a  week  t'  git  t'  throw  him  intu  th'  bunch,  'n'  by  that 
time  he'd  be  lean  'n'  loony  's  a  sheep  herder  'n'  wild  's 
the  old  '  Black  Stalhon  o'  Chalk  Bluffs  '." 

Con  scowled  angrily  at  Llano  and  then  said,  with  a 
poor  attempt  at  an  agreeable  smile : 

"  Kid,  that  freckled  short-horn  that  miscalls  his- 
Belf  from  Llano  's  a  short  sport  'n'  a  long  shot  from 
[64] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

a  real  rawhide.  He  'lows  t'  buffalo  yu.  They  ain't  airy 
shore  'nough  rawhide  in  th'  bunch  as  '11  say  it  caint  be 
did,  'n'  did  easy,"  and  he  looked  threateningly  about 
the  circle.  "  O'  cou'se  it'll  keep  yu  humpin'  yu'sef  a 
few,  but  yu'll  see  th'  end  o'  th'  trail  long  'fore  night," 
and  he  must  have  added  under  his  breath,  any  trail 
hut  the  one  to  Owl  Creek.  "  Llano,  yu  speckled  '  dog- 
gie,' why  d n  yur  fool  soul,  ef  we  didn't  have  this 

bunch  o'  cows  under  herd  I'd  jest  call  yer  hand  'n' 
set  yu  afoot,  fer  I'd  gamble  all  I  got  I  c'd  take  my 
top  cuttin'  hoss  'n'  run  airy  cow  'n'  calf  in  the 
bunch  intu  th'  Owl  Creek  pens  'thout  reinin'  or 
quirtin'." 

This  settled  the  question  for  me.  I  knew  the  job 
was  considered  a  deadly  hard  one  by  every  man  in 
camp,  knew  it  by  their  very  silence — proving  it  one 
of  the  few  subjects  too  serious  to  talk  and  jest  about 
— ^but  jumped  at  it  gladly  as  another  opportunity 
in  the  struggle  to  lose  my  identity  as  a  tenderfoot. 

While  I  was  saddling  my  toughest  horse,  outside 
of  "  Walkingbars,"  whom  I  did  not  dare  trust  on 
such  a  trip,  Tex  strolled  over  for  a  friendly  word : 

"  Kid,  Con's  stacked  yu  up  agin  it  good  'n'  plenty 

this  time.  Th'  range  is  black  with  L.  F.  'n'  N.  D.  cows 

every  jump  o'  the  way.  Ef  yu  git  t'  pen  that  cow  'n' 

calf  at  Owl  Creek  it'll  be  one  o'  old  Mahster's  red- 

[65] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

headedest  miracles,  'side  which  a  feller  a  walkin'  on 
water  or  a  climbin  outen  th'  belly  o'  a  tig  fish  's  easy 
's  takin'  yu  mo'nin'  coffee.  But  yu  kin  make  a  hell  o' 

a  stagger  at  it  'n'  do  yur  d dest,  'n'  yu  might 

draw  luck  'nough  t'  git  thar;  ef  yu  do,  thar  ain't 
airy  puncher  'tween  Goliad  'n'  Greeley  but  'd  admire 
t'  throw  in  wi'  yu  as  a  expert  rawhide,  'n'  t'  pump 
lead  at  any  critter  that  says  yu  ain't  straight  off  th' 
haid  wate's  o'  Bitter  Creek. 

"  Th'  main  trick,  Kid,  's  t'  keep  her  off  th'  prod  'n' 
sweet-tempered.  Ef  yu  crowds  her  too  hard  'n'  gits 
her  on  th'  fight,  it's  '  Katy  bar  th'  door '  wi'  yu,  'n' 
adios  t'  her  'n'  her  calf.  Put  in  most  o'  yu  time  a 
shovin'  th'  loose  range  stock  back  away  from  yu,  'n' 
keep  her  a  driftin'  tow'rd  Owl  Creek  so  easy  like  she 
'lows  she's  goin'  'cause  she  jest  nachally  has  im- 
po'tant  bizness  up  thar  she's  bound  t'  'tend  t'  he'se'f. 

"  Two  miles  up  Willow  's  th'  uppe'  pen,  'n'  thar 
yu  strikes  off  no'west.  Our  waggon  sign  comin'  down 
'11  be  all  washed  out  by  th'  rains,  but  ef  yu  kin  keep 
a  no'west  cou'se  fo'  fifteen  miles  yu'll  hit  th'  west  end 
o'  th'  Chalk  Bluffs,  wi'  a  lone  butte  a  standin'  out  by 
hi'se'f,  'n'  yu  goes  up  ove'  th'  pass  'tween  th'  butte 
'n'  th'  main  bluffs,  'n'  't  th'  top  o'  th'  pass  yu  kin 
see  th'  ranch  three  mile  away. 

"  Ef  yu  gets  to  th'  east  o'  no'th  hit'U  take  yu  intu 
[66] 


THE  TENDERFOOT'S  TRIALS 
deep  bays  o'  th'  bluffs  whar  th'  country's  all  standin' 
on  aidge  'n'  '11  stand  yu  on  yu'  haid.  Ef  yu  b'ars  too 
iav  west  hit'U  be  lay  out  unde'  yu  saddle  blanket, 
fo'  yu  an'  keen  sahe  case  whar  yu  brings  up.  Hit's 
fo'ty  mile  no'th  to  th'  U.  P.,  same  west  to  th'  D.  P., 
fifty  south  to  th'  Platte,  same  east  t'  Crow  Creek, 
wi'  only  one  othe'  ranch  in  the  squar',  Brewster's,  so 
yu  ain't  liable  to  be  crowded  none,  'cept  to  know 
straight  up  from  sideways.  Ef  yu  gits  plumb  lost, 
jest  git  down,  onsaddle  'n'  rest  'ri'  graze  yu'  boss  'n' 
study  hit  ove'  plenty.  Then  pick  a  cou'se  somewhars 
— anywhars — fork  yu'  cayuse  'n'  keep  goin'  plumb 
straight  twell  yu  runs  up  agin  somethin'  'sides  jest 
room  t'  ride  in  or  meets  up  wi'  somebody  that's  at 
hisse'f  'n'  kin  git  down,  'n'  make  a  map  in  th'  sand  'n' 
show  yu  whar  yu're  at." 

And  this  was  all  Tex,  or,  indeed,  anybody,  could 
do  for  me. 

I  mounted  and  rode  out  to  the  herd  already  string- 
ing out  on  the  trail. 

While  Con  was  riding  up  the  line  searching  for 
the  cow  and  calf  he  had  selected.  Jack  Talbot  rode 
up  and  observed: 

"  Mistah  Kid,  I  shore  gits  from  unde'  my  hat  to  yu 
gall.  Ole  N.  R.  'n'  his'n  could  live  on  Owl  milk  twell 

th'  hull  d n  fambly  hooted  every  blamed  time  thej; 

[67] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

tried  t'  say  somethin'  'fore  I'd  try  t'  run  'em  a  lone 
cow  'n'  calf  from  Willow  t'  th'  home  ranch.  Yu  has 
my  respec's  f o'  li'tin'  in  t'  do  hit ;  'n'  ef  yu  gits  her 

thar,  I'll  make  that  d d  or'nery  Con  Humphreys 

kill  the  biggest  maverick  in  the  bunch  'n'  write  yu 
on  th'  inside  o'  hit's  hide,  wi'  waggon  dope  fo'  ink  'n' 
his  pinted  ole  nose  fo'  a  pen,  a  full  diplomi  for  bein' 
th'  ring-tailedst  puncher  'tween  th'  Brazos  'n'  Bow 
River,  shore's  my  daddy's  name's  Talbot." 

By  the  time  Jack  had  finished  his  friendly  remarks, 
Con  had  found  the  cow,  cut  her  from  the  herd,  and 
jelled  to  me  to  come  and  take  her,  which  I  did.  She 
was  a  half-bred  Durham,  with  the  breadth  and  depth 
of  quarter  of  the  better  breed,  but  the  long,  sharp 
horns  of  her  Spanish  ancestry,  wild,  like  the  rest, 
as  a  deer,  and  was  followed  by  a  calf,  two  or  three 
weeks  old. 

Keen  to  break  back  to  the  herd,  she  gave  me  a  lively 
run  to  carry  her  past  and  beyond  the  point  of  the 
herd,  but  once  ahead,  I  had  comparatively  easy  going 
for  two  miles  up  Willow  Valley,  and  two  miles  more 
out  northwest  from  the  upper  pen,  for  the  sun  was 
scarcely  a  half-hour  high,  and  the  range  cattle  were 
still  well  out  in  the  hills,  feeding. 

I  crowded  her  little  as  possible,  both  to  avoid  get- 
ting her  on  the  fight  and  to  save  the  calf's  strength, 
[68] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

for  once  the  calf  played  out  or  the  mother  got  on  the 
prod,  driving  must  cease. 

All  about  me  lay  the  billowy  plains,  rising  gently 
into  tall,  rounded  yellow  ridges,  one  like  another  as 
two  peas,  and  then  sinking  into  valleys,  rising  and 
sinking,  ever  rising  and  sinking.  Indeed,  the  land- 
scape, look  where  one  would,  was  devoid  of  helpful 
landmark  of  any  description  save  the  dark  blue  line, 
nearly  a  hundred  miles  west  of  me,  that  marked  the 
great  wall  of  the  Rockies,  with  Pike's  Peak  its  farthest 
visible  buttress  to  the  south,  breaking  down  to  more 
modest  height  north  of  Gray's  Peak,  and  stretching 
away  into  the  north  till  lost  entirely  to  view  behind 
distant  swells  of  the  plains. 

And  even  the  Rockies  helped  me  none  in  keeping 
my  course,  for  north  of  Gray's  Peak  the  visible  reach 
of  the  range  was,  at  my  distance,  without  distinguish- 
ing uplift  to  help  me  steer  by. 

About  four  miles  out  from  camp  and  two  north 
of  the  upper  Willow  corrals,  my  real  troubles  began, 
and  they  were  real  enough.  The  plains  were  alive, 
swarming  everywhere  with  cattle,  grazing  singly  and 
in  groups,  and  the  cow,  which  I  was  not  long  in  dub- 
bing "  Con's  Revenge,"  broke  at  top  speed  in  any 
and  all  directions  that  ranged  widest  from  our  proper 
route.  She  would  dash  off  at  top  speed,  a  pace  the 
[69] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

calf  could  not  follow  and  that  quickly  distanced  it, 
and  it  took  near  the  best  gait  of  my  horse  to  head  and 
turn  her  back,  often  to  find  the  calf  clumsily  gallop- 
ing toward  another  (by  this  time)  nearer  bunch. 
Then  the  two  had  to  be  thrown  together  and  turned 
away  from  the  group  the  calf  was  nearing. 

By  the  time  we  were  out  about  eight  miles,  as  near 
as  I  could  judge,  from  the  pen,  "  Con's  Revenge  " 
had  gotten  tired  down  till  her  breaks  were  at  a  trot 
instead  of  a  gallop,  my  horse  was  showing  some  dis- 
tress, and  "  Mrs.  Revenge "  made  two  breaks  to 
charge  and  chase  me  when  I  sought  to  turn  her 
back. 

So,  seeing  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  patience 
and  time,  I  swept  out  in  a  wide  circle  ahead,  yelling 
and  shooting,  and  scattering  the  range  stock  to  right 
and  left,  and  then  wheeled  back — only  to  see  "  Mrs. 
Revenge  "  trotting  away  toward  Willow  fast  as  the 
calf  could  follow,  requiring  another  half-mile  dash  to 
overtake  and  turn  her ! 

And  this  wearing,  heart-breaking  work  continued 
for  hours,  with  occasional  brief  dismounts,  to  loosen 
my  saddle,  and  cool  and  rest  my  horse  when  range 
cattle  were  at  a  safe  distance,  usually  after  one  of 
my  short  runs  to  scatter  them. 

I  had  hoped  to  sight  the  point  of  Chalk  Bluffs  be- 
[70] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

fore  noon,  but  the  day  dragged  on  into  mid-after- 
noon with  naught  but  the  swells  and  dips  of  the 
plains,  and  the  distant  blue  line  of  the  Rockies  in 
sight. 

The  keeping  a  course  had  been  made  all  the  more 
difficult  by  my  constant  dashes  to  right  and  left, 
stampeding  away  the  range  cattle,  and  by  this  time  I 
hadn't  the  ghost  of  an  idea  of  my  real  position,  ex- 
cept that  I  felt  sure  I  must  have  passed  the  bluff 
point  too  far  south  to  see  it.  All  certain  was  that  I 
still  had  my  charges  safely  in  hand,  now  so  leg-weary 
they  were  glad  to  rest  when  I  had  to  leave  them  to 
clear  the  way,  the  cow  so  ill-tempered  she  often 
charged  or  stood  and  threatened  me  for  five  or  ten 
minutes,  eyes  blazing,  horns  tossing. 

With  night  approaching,  a  storm  coming  rapidly 
down  on  me  from  the  northeast,  and  my  horse  close 
to  "  dead  on  his  legs,"  I  decided  to  take  a  chance  on 
my  judgment,  and  swung  my  course,  as  well  as  I 
could,  to  the  east  of  north. 

And  lucky  I  was  to  make  the  shift,  for  in  half  an 
hour  a  great  butte  rose  out  of  the  plains  a  trifle  to 
the  right  of  my  course.  It  did  not  look  like  the  point 
of  Chalk  Bluffs  to  me,  but  it  was  something  to  cling 
to  and  I  made  for  it. 

An  hour  later,  in  the  very  nick  of  time  before  a 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

heavy  plunging  rain  came  down  and  shut  out  any 
distant  view,  off  in  the  north,  to  the  left  of  the  butte, 
I  saw  a  big  ranch  and  corrals  which  must  be  N.  R.'s. 
In  the  storm  cow  and  calf  became  utterly  unmanage- 
able, and  two  miles  south  of  the  ranch  I  left  them 
and  rode  in,  to  make  sure  of  cover  before  I  lost  my 
direction  in  the  storm. 

As  I  neared  the  ranch  the  downpour  ceased,  and 
the  sun  came  out,  showing  me  good  old  N.  R.  him- 
self, comfortably  settled  in  an  easy  chair  on  the 
porch. 

"  Well,  kid,  where's  the  round-up  ?  "  was  his  greet- 
ing. 

"  Camped  to-night  at  the  Upper  Willow  pen,"  I 
repHed. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  doing  away  from  it  ?  Come  a 
little  too  tough  and  turned  in  your  string  of  horses 
and  quit.'^  "  he  asked. 

"  No ;  Con  started  me  at  sun-up  this  morning  to 
drive  you  in  a  milk  cow  and  calf,"  I  answered. 

"  Started  you  alone  to  drive  a  wild  cow  and  calf 

twenty  miles  through  range  cattle?  The  h he 

did !  Wonder  if  he  was  mad  or  crazy.  Well,  where  is 
she,  anyhow  ?  "  he  snapped. 

"  Two  miles  south  of  the  ranch  I  left  her  in  the 
storm  and  came  in,"  I  said. 

[72] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    TRIALS 

**  Oh,  you  did !  Well,  your  orders  were  to  bring 
her  here,  were  they  not?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  better  get  her." 

"  Give  me  a  fresh  horse  and  I  will — mine's  dead  on 
its  legs." 

"  Should  think  he'd  be  dead  all  over ;  you  can  rope 
any  you  like  out  of  the  pen." 

A  few  minutes  later  I  loped  away  south  on  a  fresh 
mount,  had  the  luck  to  find  my  charges,  somewhat 
cooled  off  by  the  storm  and  rested,  and  drifting  them 
on  slowly  and  gently,  succeeded  in  safely  penning 
them  just  at  sunset ;  they  were  so  worn  and  tired  they 
marched  up  to  and  through  the  corral  gate  like  a 
bunch  of  wild  horses  after  a  "  nine-day  walk-down." 

As  I  was  unsaddling,  N.  R.  strolled  up  and  ob- 
served : 

"  Kid,  you've  sure  won  puncher  spurs  to-day." 

And  that  night  I  dined  luxuriously  at  the  big 
ranch  house  table. 


[73] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 
THE  TENDERFOOT'S  FIRST  HERD 

THE  first  herd  I  bought  and  decorated  with 
the  Three  Crow  brand,  with  a  "  crop  "  of 
the  right  and  "  under  half  crop  "  of  the  left 
as  an  earmark,  brought  me  so  many  anxieties  that 
matured  into  full-grown  troubles  and  so  many  trou- 
bles that  developed  anxieties  that  I  am  not  likely 
ever  to  forget  it. 

And  yet  the  herd  was  not  a  big  one ;  in  fact,  it  was 
so  small  and  punchers'  wages  were  so  high  for  an 
outfit  going  north  into  the  Indian  country  that  I  cut 
expenses  by  dispensing  with  the  hiring  of  a  foreman 
and  undertaking  to  run  the  outfit  myself. 

For  an  outfit  of  thoroughbred  Texas  brush-split- 
ters a  tenderfoot  owner  was  bad  enough,  always  the 
object  of  ill-concealed  distrust  and  contempt,  and 
only  endurable  so  long  as  the  pay  was  sure  and 
mounts  plenty  and  sound,  while  a  tenderfoot  fore- 
man was  nothing  short  of  a  downright  humiliation, 
his  simplest  orders  a  personal  affront  hard  for  these 
[74] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

sturdy,  masterful  experts  at  their  hazardous  calHng 
to  keep  from  resenting. 

Indeed,  even  old  political  lines  were  a  fruitful  source 
of  dislike  and  ill-will  for  the  tenderfoot — who  was 
nearly  always  a  Northerner,  while  all  the  best  punch- 
ers were  Texans,  the  elders  themselves  ex-Confed- 
erate soldiers,  the  younger  sons  of  Wearers  of  the 
Gray,  men  in  whose  honest  partisan  hearts  still 
glowed  bright  the  embers  of  the  flame  of  Civil  War 
that  a  decade  before  had  swept  their  well-beloved 
South  and  left  it  prostrate. 

It  was,  therefore,  little  to  be  wondered  at  that 
"  a  blue-bellied  Yankee  kid  "  had  little  of  their  liking 
for  his  personality  and  less  of  their  respect  for  what 
he  knew. 

In  fact,  I  doubt  if  I  ever  should  have  succeeded  in 
persuading  an  outfit  of  real  rawhides  to  ride  out 
under  my  leadership  but  for  dear  old  Tex,  who  had 
quit  the  N.  D.  outfit  to  follow  me. 

Tex  put  the  situation  and  the  temper  of  the  men 
better  than  I  have  when  he  said : 

"  OP  Man  " — though  only  twenty,  I  became  "  th' 
oV  man  "  as  soon  as  I  started  in  to  hire  an  outfit — 
"  yu  see  it's  thisaway.  Cow  punchin'  's  a  profession 
no  feller  ever'U  live  long  enough  t'  git  t'  know  th' 
hull  way  from  hoofs  t'  horns. 
[75] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

"  Th'  oldest  rawhide  livin',  one  that  rid  a  runnin' 
iron  fo'  a  hobbj-hoss,  wi'  a  rawhide  hobble  fo'  a 
bridle,  'fore  he  was  big  enough  t'  fork  a  pony,  'n'  was 
bornded  wi'  cow  sense  from  his  daddy,  'n'  was  throw- 
in'  strings  at  th'  cat  'fore  he  could  swing  a  rope,  has 
t'  cash  in  his  last  stack  o'  breath,  'n'  turn  into  buz- 
zard feed  'thout  learnin'  all  th'  meanness  plannin' 
below  th'  horn  wrinkles  'v  a  moss-back. 

"  As  fo'  cayuses,  t'  say  nothin'  o'  spoiled  outlaws, 
thar  ain't  airy  buster  from  th'  Brazos  kin  tell  what 
new  bunch  o'  hell  they^re  goin'  t'  hand  him,  o'  whether 
she's  comin'  from  th'  front  o'  th'  stern  end. 

"  'N'  when  yu  gits  t'  handlin'  'v  'em  in  big  bunches, 
cows  o'  cayuses,  ol'  Mahste'  hisse'f  even  caint  sorta 
reckon  what  they'll  up  'n'  do. 

"  So  you  see,  01'  Man,  it's  jest  nachally  mos'  pow'- 
ful  hard  fo'  a  bunch  o'  long-horn  rawhides  like  we-all 
t'  git  t'  see  how  'n  hell  a  short-horn,  stall-fed  Yankee 
like  yu-all,  that  don't  know  mesquite  from  zacaton  o' 
sweetbreads  from  kidney  fat,  's  a  goin'  t'  git  t'  handle 
a  cow  outfit  anywheres,  'specially  up  in  th'  Injun 
country — 'n'  them  red  jaspers  's  a  harder  bunch  t' 
git  t'  sdbe  than  cows  o'  cayuses ! 

"  'Pears  t'  we-all  like  it'll  be  nigh  hell  fo'  yu-all 
'n'  plumb  hell  for  we-all — yu-all  a  strainin'  o'  yu  in- 
tellec'  tryin'  t'  give  orders  'bout  work  you  don't  sabe, 
[76] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

'n'  we-all  a  bustin^  o'  ourn  tryin'  t'  sahe  what  yu-all's 
tryin'  t'  git  out  o'  yu  haid ! 

"  But  she's  a  go,  all  th'  same !  I  got  a  bunch  o' 
ivory-handled  red-sashers  as  '11  shore  start  out — 'n'  '11 
stay  ef  they  kin  git  t'  stand  her. 

"  How  'd  I  git  'em?  Why,  jest  tellin'  'v  'em  what 
yu  done  wi'  that  old  hellion  o'  a  outlaw,  '  Walking- 
bars,'  't  nobody  else  could  handle  'thout  nigh  killin' 
him,  'n'  how  yu,  single-handed,  driv'  th'  lone  cow  'n' 
calf  twenty  mile  through  th'  heart  o'  th'  Iliff  range 
t'  Owl  Creek. 

"  When  I  got  done,  th'  boys  they  'Uowed  yu  was 
packin'  a  pow'ful  heavy  jag  o'  gall  o'  luck,  o'  Injun 
medicine,  they  couldn't  make  out  which,  'n'  they  jest 
nachally  figured  't  either  one  might  do,  'n'  't  they'd 
take  a  chanct  that  she'd  hold  out  'n'  stay  wi'  yu.  That 
feller  Cress  he'ped  by  him  sayin'  yu  shore  must  have 
some  boss  sense  'n'  a  leetle  smatterin'  o'  cow  sense. 

"So,  01'  Man,  she's  a  go!" 

And  Tex  drew  a  deep  breath  and  leaned  heavily  up- 
on the  polished  walnut  of  George  Masten's  bar,  weak, 
limp,  exhausted  from  the  sudden  loss,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, of  more  language  than  he  usually  gave  up  in  a 
month. 

The  getting  my  money's  worth  in  the  purchase  of 
a  herd  was  a  most  difficult  task. 
[77] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

Of  relative  values  of  cattle  and  horses  I  knew  liter- 
ally nothing,  and  prices  varied  with  the  breed,  quality, 
age  and  condition;  the  cheapest,  the  gaunt,  leggy, 
wild  long-horn  stock  of  straight  Spanish  breed  come 
out  of  the  chapparal  along  the  lower  reaches  of  the 
Rio  Grande ;  the  dearest,  the  thick-loined,  deep-quar- 
tered, dark  red  half-breed  short-horn  Oregonians, 
descended  from  some  of  the  best  Missouri  and  Illi- 
nois strains,  trailed  by  emigrants  across  the  plains 
in  the  early  50s.  Between  these  two  extremes  were 
two  intermediate  grades,  the  Middle  Texans  and 
Utahs. 

Of  course  in  each  grade  there  was  wide  difference 
in  quality  and  therefore  in  values. 

Then,  to  make  the  tenderfoot  buyer's  task  almost 
hopeless,  a  separate  price  was  set  on  cows  and  calves, 
in  one  class,  and  on  yearlings,  two,  three,  and  four- 
year-olds,  in  four  distinct  classes;  and  classification 
by  age  had  to  be  made  on  the  open  plains,  while  the 
cattle  were  run  in  a  narrow  and  steady  stream  be- 
tween the  mounted  buyer  and  seller. 

While  really  the  only  practicable  method  of  classi- 
fication, it  plainly  gave  the  canny,  hawk-eyed  old- 
time  trail  drivers  a  terrible  advantage  over  the 
tenderfoot  they  never  neglected — a.  chance  to  class 
many  a  big  calf  as  a  yearling,  long  yearlings  as  two- 
[78] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

year-olds,  etc.,  and  thus  to  heavily  mark  up  the  aver- 
age per  capita  price  of  the  herd. 

iVnd  not  always  content  even  with  this  advantage, 
there  was  one  notorious  bit  of  mixed  humour  and 
thrift,  where  1,200  cattle  were  converted  into  2,400, 
in  making  the  running  tally  or  count,  by  selecting  an 
isolated  hill  as  the  place  of  their  delivery  to  their 
monocled,  crop-carrying,  straight-spurred  British 
buyer,  and  the  simple  expedient  of  running  the  tal- 
lied cattle  round  the  hill  for  recount  until  their  actual 
number  was  doubled !  Thus  were  staid  English  sover- 
eigns captured  and  converted  into  laughter-scream- 
ing American  eagles ! 

But  this  was  an  exception  proving  a  rule. 

For  years  cattle  were  dealt  in  by  thousands,  run- 
ning high  in  six  figures  in  value,  on  contracts  (for 
two  to  three  months  future  delivery)  which  often 
remained  mere  verbal  agreements,  or  at  best  were 
represented  by  a  few  lines  rudely  pencilled  on  the 
back  of  a  tomato  can  label! 

No  matter  how  largely  the  market  prices  in  the  in- 
terval might  vary  against  either  buyer  or  seller,  I 
never  heard  of  the  case  of  a  man  getting  the  worst  of 
such  a  trade  undertaking  to  repudiate  his  agreement 
— some  from  motives  of  inherent  honesty,  some  from 
an  inside  hunch  that  any  attempt  at  repudiation 
[79] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

would  promptly  result  in  the  distribution  through 
his  system  of  more  lead  than  he  could  comfortably 
carry. 

In  those  days  cowmen's  differences  never  got  into 
the  civil  courts  and  very  seldom  into  the  criminal — 
never,  in  fact,  except  where  the  party  in  chief  in- 
terest ran  out  of  .45  cartridges  or  into  a  prairie  dog 
hole. 

Squabble  how  they  might  over  classification,  cow- 
men always  delivered  and  received  as  agreed. 

The  pitfalls  of  classification  I  promptly  side- 
stepped, by  deciding  to  buy  a  straight  bunch  of  cows 
and  calves. 

The  mystery  of  relative  values  I  had  to  find  the 
key  for,  and  old  newspaper  instinct  promptly  sug- 
gested— pick  the  biggest  winner  and  study  him  at  his 
work. 

At  that  time  Alex  Swan  was  the  largest  buyer  of 
trail  cattle  and  the  most  experienced  and  successful 
cowman  in  Wyoming,  so  generally  conceded. 

Thus  it  happened  that,  for  a  month,  everywhere 
that  Alex  went  the  tenderfoot  went  too.  Every  herd 
Swan  examined,  I  was  seldom  out  of  earshot — and 
usually  contrived  to  learn  the  prices  he  bid,  whether 
they  were  accepted  or  rejected. 

Finally  a  day  came  when  he  refused  a  bunch  about 
[80] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

my  size  (716  cows,  each  with  a  calf  by  its  side)  on  a 
difference  of  a  dollar  a  head  with  the  seller,  and  when 
he  was  gone,  after  much  palaver  and  the  inevitable 
cow-trade  accompaniment  of  stick  whittling,  I  got 
the  seller  to  split  the  dollar  and  bought  the  bunch. 

The  herd  bought  was  delivered  to  me  at  the  home 
ranch  of  the  seller  (who  had  himself  driven  them  from 
Utah),  near  the  summit  of  one  of  the  lowest  passes 
in  the  Rockies.  Delivery  was  not  finished  till  so  late 
in  the  afternoon  we  were  able  to  drive  no  more  than 
a  scant  four  miles  from  the  seller's  ranch,  and  com- 
pelled to  camp  in  the  heart  of  his  range. 

And  since  he  had  that  same  day  turned  loose  on  his 
range  2,000  head  bearing  the  same  brand  as  my  pur- 
chase, the  last  possible  care  was  necessary  against 
straying  or  a  stampede.  Any  there  so  lost  it  would 
be  extremely  difficult,  and  perhaps  even  impossible, 
to  recover,  for  the  seller  was  reputed  an  adept  at 
making  the  best  of  a  profitable  opportunity. 

Camp  was  made  beside  a  spring  at  the  edge  of  a 
fairly  level  grassy  glade  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
wide.  To  the  west  of  the  glade  lay  a  mile  of  tangled 
dead  fall  and  thick  strewn  boulders,  breaking  sharp- 
ly down  at  its  western  edge,  in  an  almost  precipitous 
descent  of  two  or  three  hundred  feet,  to  a  small 
tributary  of  the  Laramie  River.  It  was  as  rough  a 
[81] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

bit  of  country  as  even  the  combined  effect  of  glacier, 
fire  and  wind  could  possibly  produce,  almost  utterly 
impassable  to  a  horseman  in  daylight. 

As  Cress  put  it  while  we  were  eating  supper : 
"  I  shore  don't  like  th'  look  o'  that  old  lobo  that 
tallied  t'  us,  'n'  I  likes  his  motions  less  than  his  looks. 
With  his  p'inted  ole  nose  'n'  yaller  eyes,  he  favours  a 
wolf  more'n  any  human  I  ever  threw  an  eye  on,  'n' 
his  turnin'  a  big  bunch  o'  his  drive  loose  on  th'  range 
in  th'  same  road-brand  you  done  bot  under,  looks 
like  he  was  figurin'  on  our  makin'  a  big  loosin'  'fore 
we  kin  git  out  o'  his  range  or  git  t'  know  any  'v  'em 
well  'nough  t'  tell  'em  by  th'  flesh  marks  'n'  make  a 
reclaim.  Reckon  we-all  better  make  her  a  double- 
guard  after  th'  first  relief — for  any  hell  he  tries  to 
kick  up  in  the  way  o'  a  loose  blanket  or  chap-shakin' 
stampede  '11  come  along  o'  midnight. 

"  If  they  jumps  west  into  that  snarl  o'  wind-failed 
dead  timber  'n'  rocks,  I  allows  no  boss  ever  foaled  is 
liable  to  live  thro'  it  long  'nough  t'  git  t'  head  'n' 
turn  'em.  'N'  if  ever  they  reaches  th'  aidge  o'  that 
thar  canon,  yu're  set  back,  01'  Man,  'n'  that  ole 
lobo's  set  up  by  every  one  goin'  over,  a  makin'  ole 
lobo  so  pleased  with  hisse'f  he's  liable  t'  tickle  plumb 
t'  death  if  we-all  don't  empty  a  few  loads  o'  lead  into 
his  carcass  t'  di\ert  him.  It's  shore  head  'em  quick, 
[82] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

01'  Man,  if  they  jumps.  'N'  we  kin  thank  ole  Mahster 
they're  cows,  'stead  o'  steers !  " 

Of  course  the  chance  that  a  herd  of  cows  and 
calves,  thoroughly  trail  broke  and  well-grazed  and 
watered,  would  stampede  of  a  fair  night  was  scarcely 
one  in  a  thousand;  but  if,  from  any  circumstance, 
they  should  jump  their  bed  ground.  Cress  put  the 
certainty  of  heavy  losses  none  too  strongly. 

So  I  decided  to  take  the  first  relief  myself,  giving 
Cress,  as  mover  of  the  motion,  the  honour  of  sitting 
his  horse  all  night  with  me,  with  the  understanding 
that  at  10:30  p.m.  Tex  should  join  us  with  the 
balance  of  the  outfit,  every  man  on  his  best  horse. 
Surely  the  eight  of  us  could  hold  them,  come  what 
might. 

My  mount  was  a  great,  powerful  fifteen  and  three- 
quarter  hand  stocking-legged  sorrel,  far  better  than 
a  half-breed.  I  had  bought  him  of  Arthur  Coffee,  who 
had  brought  him  through  from  Texas  that  spring 
with  a  drive  of  500  unbroke  mustangs  "  for  stam- 
pede insurance,"  as  Coffee  put  it. 

"  And  if  there's  anything  on  these  plains  he  can't 
outrun,  short  of  somebody's  thoroughbred,  I'll  give 
you  back  your  $150;  our  remouda  stampeded  eight 
times  without  the  loss  of  a  single  horse,  and  it  was 
*  Stocking  '  turned  them  every  time,"  Coffee  added. 
[83] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

"  Stocking  "  was  that  rare  equine  combination  of 
steel  spring  muscles  and  fierce  spirit  that  leaves  the 
best  horseman  in  doubt  how  long  he  may  remain  his 
master;  a  horse  that,  shirking  nothing,  grandly 
charges  everything  you  put  him  at — and  takes  it  or 
dies — a  horse  out  of  a  million  to  have  between  your 
knees  in  any  great  emergency. 

And  that  night  "  Stocking "  proved  himself  far 
and  away  the  cheapest  "  insurance  "  I  ever  bought, 
for  he  certainly  saved  me  the  better  part  of 
$20,000! 

It  was  a  perfect  night  in  late  September,  without 
moon,  but  cloudless,  the  stars  glittering  like  pale 
rubies  in  their  azure  setting,  dark,  of  course,  and  yet 
far  short  of  the  brooding  black  of  an  Eastern  night, 
the  last  night  to  look  for  a  stampede  unless  from  will- 
ful mischief  or  from  whatever  of  the  supernatural 
agencies  sometimes  in  an  instant  turn  a  sleeping  herd 
into  a  running,  raging  animal  torrent  nigh  impossible 
to  stem. 

Round  and  round  we  rode.  Cress  and  I,  jingling 
our  spurs  and  humming  snatches  of  song  to  avoid 
startHng  our  charges  by  sudden  silent  appearance 
out  of  the  darkness. 

There  they  lay,  bedded  down  in  a  circle,  quiet  and 
peaceful  as  pigs  in  a  pen,  a  chorus  of  cud-chewing 
[84] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

rising  from  the  wakeful,  and  of  contented  deep  bass 
sighs  of  surfeit  from  the  sleepers. 

It  was  too  early  in  the  night  for  any  straying 
from  within  the  herd,  so  we  could  give  most  of 
our  attention  to  any  trouble  approaching  from 
without. 

But  no  trouble  came,  nothing  happened — until 
nearly  ten  o'clock. 

At  the  moment,  I  was  riding  on  the  far  eastern 
edge  of  the  circle. 

Suddenly,  with  no  hint  of  alarm  or  untoward  inci- 
dent, up  rose  the  herd  as  one  and  off  the  bed  ground 
they  poured  in  mad  gallop,  by  every  ill  fatality  due 
west! 

Caught  unexpected  just  on  the  edge  of  the  surg- 
ing bovine  torrent.  Cress  and  his  horse  (I  later 
learned)  were  struck  and  knocked  prostrate,  luckily 
to  one  side  of  its  path,  the  horse  so  badly  injured  he 
was  of  little  further  use  on  the  run. 

Instantly  they  jumped  I  loosened  rein  and  gave 
"  Stocking  "  spur  and  quirt  at  every  bound,  racing 
for  the  lead. 

In  a  moment,  it  seemed,  we  were  out  of  the  glade 
and  into  the  dead  fall. 

Just  as  I  entered  the  timber  I  heard  two  shots  be- 
hind and  to  the  left  of  me. 

[85] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

Beside  me  roared  the  maddened  herd,  in  dense 
mass. 

Above  the  thunder  of  their  hoofs  and  the  clashing 
of  their  horns  rose  the  crash  of  rending  timber, 
through  which  they  drove  like  a  heavily  loaded  train 
through  empty  box  cars. 

They  appeared  irresistible.  As  well  try  to  check 
Niagara  or  stay  a  flooding  tide ! 

And  on  we  went,  "  Stocking  "  and  I  gaining  on 
them  at  every  jump. 

Brave  old  "  Stocking  "  seemed  to  have  the  eyes  of 
%  cat  and  the  leaping  muscles  of  a  black-tailed  buck. 

Smashing  through  tangles  of  dead  limbs,  bound- 
ing over  great  gray  trunks,  leaping  boulders,  dodg- 
ing the  impossible  jumps  in  mighty  swerves  that 
taxed  my  strength  to  keep  my  seat,  "  Stocking " 
raced  successfully  in  the  dark  across  the  worst  piece 
of  country  I  believe  it  was  ever  given  a  horse  to  sur- 
vive, and  carried  me  to  the  front  of  the  leaders,  in 
the  first  half  mile! 

It  was  splendid,  epic,  as  proud  a  moment  as  equine 
history  affords. 

And  no  spur  or  quirt  blow  touched  him  after  we 
reached  the  timber — I  was  too  busy  struggling  to 
keep  my  seat ! 

On  a  less  heroic  horse  than  "  Stocking  "  I  dare  say 
[86] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

I  should  have  funked  running  squarely  in  the  lead  of 
the  bloody,  heaving,  hideous  mass  hard  upon  our 
heels,  for  there  to  fall  meant  instant  mangling — 
death. 

But  with  his  straining  muscles  superbly  answering 
every  call,  his  great  barrel  pulsmg  evenly  between 
my  thighs  without  throb  or  catch  of  distress,  some- 
how his  mighty  strength  of  will  and  thews  got  into 
mine,  and  lead  them  all  we  did,  I  yelling  and  shooting 
into  the  leaders  fast  as  I  could  empty  and  reload  my 
gun. 

Presently,  with  now  and  then  a  leader  falling  to  my 
shots,  the  herd  swerved  a  trifle  north. 

A  moment  later  my  men  from  camp  began  arriving 
one  by  one,  adding  their  yells  and  shots  and  thrash- 
ing slickers  to  mine. 

Five  minutes  later  the  stampede  was  broken  and 
the  herd  "  milling "  furiously,  running  round  and 
round  in  a  compact,  solid  mass. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  we  had  the  mill  broken,  and 
were  quietly  moving  the  herd  back  to  the  bed  ground. 

When  morning  came  we  found  twenty-six  dead  in 
the  timber,  of  trampling  or  shots,  while  many  were 
dehorned  or  otherwise  cut  and  mutilated. 

The  actual  cause  of  the  stampede  we  never  knew, 
but  we  had  something  more  tangible  than  suspicions. 
[87] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

[And  it  was  good  old  faithful  Tex  who  gave  them 
point. 

"  When  yu-all  'n'  Cress  takes  first  relief,"  he  said, 
*'  I  slips  out  'round  th'  herd  'n'  stays  coyotin'  'round 
back  'n'  forth  'tween  th'  herd  'n'  ole  loho^s  camp. 
Never  seed  nothin'  till  th'  herd  jumped,  'n'  then  here 
come  a  feller  quirtin'  'n'  spurrin'  south  I  knowed 
couldn't  be  yu-all,  'n'  so  I  lends  him  two  loads  out  o' 
my  gun  'fore  he  gits  losed  in  th'  dark.  This  mornin'  I 
circles  for  his  trail  'n'  got  it — 'n'  also  a  spur,  shot 
loose  at  th'  concho,  'n'  besides  th'  juicy  joy  o'  seein' 
right  smart  o'  blood  along  his  tracks.  If  we  only  had 
these  yere  cows  branded,  I'd  be  in  favour  o'  turnin' 
all  other  holts  loose  'till  we-all'd  shot  the  lights  outen 

everything  that  wears  a  gun  on  this  d d  thievin' 

ranch." 

The  tenderfoot  was  getting  on,  but  Tex's  sug- 
gestion was  so  far  a  hotter  pace  than  even  "  Stock- 
ing's," that  the  culprits  were  left  with  the  will  for 
the  deed. 

While  the  plan  was  later  changed,  it  was  then  my 
intention  ultimately  to  drive  northwest  into  the  Fort 
Casper  country  in  search  of  a  range  for  the  herd. 
The  outpost  of  range  settlement  in  that  direction  at 
the  time  was  the  Loomis  Ranch,  at  the  west  end  of  the 
Laramie  Canon  and  forty  miles  north  of  the  U.  P., 
[88] 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

then  abandoned  on  account  of  Sioux  horse-stealing 
raids  that  spring. 

However,  hearing  it  had  large  corrals  in  good  con- 
dition, thither  we  drove,  only  to  find  the  chutes  of 
the  corrals  in  such  bad  condition  they  could  not  be 
used.  This  compelled  us  to  rope  and  throw  each  cow 
and  calf  singly,  one  rider  roping  the  head,  another 
rider  the  heels,  a  third  man  "  tailing  down,"  and  a 
fourth  applying  the  branding-iron. 

It  was  hard,  wearing  work,  so  hard  on  the  horses 
that  by  the  time  the  last  cow  was  branded  no  horses 
remained  with  the  strength  or  soundness  of  back  to 
justify  their  use  in  calf  branding. 

Grazed  slowly  through  over  the  Bitter  Creek  trail, 
the  calves  were  almost  as  heavy  and  strong  as  Texas 
yearlings,  so  heavy  that  the  roping  and  throwing 
them  afoot  exhausted  and  irritated  the  men  till  they 
became  nearly  unmanageable. 

The  second  evening  of  this  work  I  overheard  Mack 
Lambert  holding  forth  to  his  bed-mate: 

"  What  'n  hell  'd  we-all  want  t'  hire  out  for  t'  a 
fool  tenderfoot  kid  that  caint  tell  a  yearling  from  a 
coyote  a  couple  o'  hundred  yards  off?  Fine  bunch  o' 
dilberries,  we-uns,  a  lettin'  him  fetch  us  out  'n'  set  us 
afoot  th'  first  ten  days !  I'd  druther  go  down  into  th' 
settlements  'n'  hire  out  t'  some  ole  long-whiskered 
[89] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

granger  t*  shovel  hay  'n'  dig  post  holes  than  be  made 
t'  work  cows  afoot  hke  a  locoed  sheep-herder.  It's  me 
for  a  jump,  pronto !  " 

Indeed,  it  was  plain  this  sentiment  pervaded  the 
entire  outfit,  bar  Tex  and  Cress,  who  worked  faith- 
fully wherever  I  put  them. 

The  next  day  the  general  irritation  bred  a  crisis. 

Tired  and  slack  in  his  work,  Mack  several  times 
allowed  calves  such  free  run  on  his  rope  that  they 
smashed  into  Howe,  who  was  "  tailing  down  "  for 
another  roper. 

Twice  I  had  warned  him  to  be  more  careful — the 
only  result  a  surly  "  hueno." 

Presently  another  of  Mack's  calves  crashed  into 
Howe,  its  sharp  hoof  badly  tearing  his  hand.  Instant- 
ly he  sprang  to  his  feet,  seized  a  branding-iron  and 
felled  Mack,  luckily  with  no  more  than  a  glancing 
blow,  and  jumped  on  and  began  beating  him. 

Too  short-handed  to  have  a  man  disabled,  I 
grabbed  the  men  and  pulled  them  apart  and  or- 
dered them  back  to  their  work,  and  they  sullenly 
complied. 

For  perhaps  fifteen  minutes  there  was  peace  in  the 

pen,  and  then  suddenly  Cress  ran  up  and  told  me 

Mack  was  coming  from  the  waggon  with  my  rifle — ■ 

must  have  slipped  out  of  the  pen  unobserved  to  arm 

[90] 


*'The  only  response  a  surly  *bueno^  " 


THE    TENDERFOOT'S    FIRST    HERD 

himself,  as  he,  with  several  others,  had  left  their  belts 
at  the  waggon. 

Plainly  a  kill-up  would  be  more  disastrous  to  work 
than  a  beat-up,  and  must  be  stopped. 

As  I  jumped  over  the  corral  fence  my  pistol  scab- 
bard slipped  squarely  in  front  of  me — fortunately. 

Mack  was  rapidly  approaching  me. 

Just  as  I  hit  the  ground,  I  saw  him  throw  a  cart- 
ridge  into  the  great  .45-120  Sharps,  and  cock  it. 

We  met. 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  that  gun.  Mack  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  Goin'  t'  kill  Howe,  by ,"  he  growled. 

"  Drop  her  instantly,  Mack,  and  hop  into  that  pen 
and  go  on  roping,"  I  bluffed. 

"  See  yer  hull  tenderfoot  layout  in  hell  first — ^it's 
Howe  fer  th'  buzzards !  " 

"  Drop  her !  "  I  repeated. 

"  By  ,  I'll  beef  yu,  ef  yu'r  bound  t'  have  it, 

'n'  then  git  Howe ! "  and  instantly  he  covered  me 
with  the  full-cocked  rifle,  its  great  muzzle  within  two 
feet  of  my  face,  his  snaky,  wicked  right  eye  gleaming 
maliciously  at  me  over  the  gun  sights. 

And  right  there  somebody  about  my  size  wished 
"  the  party  was  to  hell  and  he  was  to  home,"  and 
wondered  why  a  threatening  gun  muzzle  had  been 
[91] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

described  as  looking  no  larger  than  a  hogshead  when 
this  one  was  undoubtedly  wide  as  the  yawning  future. 

But  badly  scared  as  I  was,  I  realised  it  meant  death 
to  lose  that  glittering  eye  for  an  instant,  and  con- 
trived to  hold  it,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how. 

And  so  we  stood,  both  motionless,  I  verily  believe 
two  minutes,  long  enough  anyway  for  me  to  re- 
cover wits  and  tongue,  and  I  know  that  must  have 
taken  time. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  a  cold  blazer,  so  I 
remarked,  with  a  struggle  for  a  grin  that  made  the 
muscles  of  my  face  ache : 

"  Well,  Mack,  you  are  a  four-flusher !  Don't  dare 
turn  her  loose,  do  you?  Know  if  you  did  Tex  and 
Cress  would  have  your  hide  hung  up  to  dry  before 
sundown !  Why,  there  they  go  for  the  waggon  now !  " 

And  before  Mack  could  recover  from  his  impulsive 
half-turn — to  find  that  none  but  our  two  selves  were 
outside  the  pen — my  pistol  was  out  of  the  scabbard 
and  inserted  sufficiently  within  his  ear  to  convince 
him  he  had  no  further  use  for  a  rifle. 

A  hint  to  Mack  that  if  he  made  any  more  gun 
plays  or  so  much  as  batted  an  eye,  I  would  help  Howe 
rope  and  drag  him,  turned  a  kicker  into  a  fairly  good 
worker,  and  at  the  same  time  materially  helped  the 
general  discipline  of  the  outfit  for  a  day  or  two. 
[92] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 
A  COWBOY  MUTINY 

MY  trouble  with  my  first  bunch  of  cow  punch- 
ers did  not  end  with  the  termination  of 
Mack  Lambert's  war  play.  With  horses 
worn  out  and  the  men  forced  to  work  afoot  in  the 
Loomis's  corrals,  the  task  of  branding  seven  hundred 
three-fourths-grown  Oregon  calves,  heavy  as  Texas 
yearlings,  was  hard  on  the  strength  and  trying  on 
the  temper  of  master  and  men. 

Moreover,  as  the  men  had  predicted  to  Tex,  and  he 
had  plainly  put  it  to  me  before  we  left  Cheyenne,  I 
knew  that  I  was  making  none  too  brilliant  a  success 
of  my  undertaking  to  act  as  my  own  foreman.  Ig- 
norance inspired  many  an  ill-considered  order  that 
neither  shortened  nor  lightened  the  work. 

Presently  the  storm  broke.  One  morning,  as  if  by 
concerted  agreement,  all  the  men  but  Cress  and  Tex 
began  disregarding  my  orders,  openly  jeered  at 
them,  idled  through  the  day's  work  as  they  pleased, 
and  freely  cursed  their  stupidity  for  hiring  out  to  a 
[93] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"  blue-beUied  Yankee  kid  tenderfoot,"  and  two  showed 
a  sullen  ugliness  that  threatened  personal  abuse  or 
attack. 

I  was  at  my  wits'  end — desperate.  I  must  be  master 
of  my  outfit  or  quit  the  country,  that  was  certain. 
Of  course  I  might  hire  a  foreman,  but  I  felt  I  could 
not  afford  it — and  besides  could  not  get  my  own  con- 
sent to  abandon  the  task  I  had  undertaken. 

Moreover,  I  realised  that  unless  I  quickly  re-estab- 
lished my  authority,  I  should  soon  lose  the  fidelity  of 
even  Cress  and  Tex. 

Only  one  sure  way  out  of  the  dilemma  appeared — • 
to  discharge  the  six  kickers,  fire  them  in  the  way 
punchers  dread  most  and  never  accept  without  a  gun 
play,  except  from  a  boss  against  whom  they  dare 
show  no  resentment,  viz :  "  to  set  them  afoot  to  walk 
and  pack  their  blankets  to  town." 

With  Lookout  the  nearest  railway  station  and  the 
walking  none  too  good  over  the  forty  intervening 
miles  of  thick  sage  brush,  the  chances  were  about 
six  to  one  that  my  career  would  end  right  there  in 
an  unmarked  grave,  with  only  the  whistle  of  the 
winds  through  the  sage  and  a  coyote  chorus  for  a 
requiem. 

But  the  chance  had  to  be  taken ;  there  was  nothing 
else  for  it.  So  that  evening,  during  the  first  night 
[94] 


A    COWBOY    MUTINY 

guard,  I  made  an  opportunity  to  talk  to  Cress  and 
Tex  and  learn  if,  as  I  believed,  I  could  rely  on  their 
support. 

Briefly  I  stated  that  I  proposed  to  set  the  six  afoot 
the  next  morning,  and,  if  I  succeeded  in  getting  away 
with  the  play,  to  myself  drive  our  four-mule  team  to 
Lookout  and  bring  out  a  new  outfit  of  men  and  fresh 
supplies  from  Laramie  City,  provided  the  two  of 
them  would  do  their  best  to  hold  the  herd  during  the 
three  days  of  my  absence :  "  Stay  with  them,  if  you 
can,  and  if  you  lose  them  all  you'll  hear  no  kick 
from  me,"  I  finished. 

Of  aid  in  dealing  with  the  insubordinates  I  asked 
none:  that  was  my  row,  not  theirs,  and  besides  the 
task  I  set  them  was  about  enough,  for  it  meant 
at  least  three  days  practically  without  sleep  or 
rest. 

Tex  gripped  my  bridle  arm  with  his  great  hairy 
hand  and  softly  queried : 

"  or  Man,  does  yu  shorely  mean  It?  Thar's  two  In 
that  bunch  kin  draw  'n'  kill  yu  'fore  yu  could  get 
y'ur  gun  out." 

"  Certainly,  Tex,  I  mean  it,"  I  answered.  "  I've 

just  got  it  to  do,  must  take  the  chance.  Maybe  they 

won't  call  the  play;  if  they  call,  I'll  have  to  do  my 

best,  that's  all — and  if  they  get  me  just  write  a  line 

[95] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

to  at  ,  and  say  what 

happened." 

Both  sat  silent  in  their  saddles  so  long  I  began  to 
fear  they  were  hesitating,  but  the  moment  Tex  spoke 
I  knew  it  was  sheer  astonishment  that  had  chained 
their  tongues. 

With  a  grim  smile,  the  loudest  expression  of 
pleasure  or  merriment  Tex  ever  indulged  in,  he  said 
to  Cress: 

"  Now,  Sam,  ain't  yu  d n  glad  yu  come  ?  Didn't 

I  tell  yu  that  ef  our  OP  Man  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a 
little  ol'  tende'foot  kid,  he'd  make  a  sooner,  poco  ti- 
empo?  'Pears  like  he's  comin'  some  a'ready,  'n'  I 
allows  all  hell  ain't  a  goin  t'  stop  yu  'n'  me  a  stayin' 
with  him  t'  th'  last  jump  o'  airy  trail  he  reckons  he 
wants  t'  f oiler !  " 

And  then  to  me: 

"  01'  Man,  'pears  t'  me  like  thar  must  be  a  Bitter 
Creek  back  whar  yu  come  from,  'n'  that  yu  must  a 

been  foaled  up  nigh  th'  headwaters.  Why,  yu  d n 

little  ol'  wolf,  yu  jest  howl  all  yu  want  tu;  'n'  ef 
that  bunch  gits  t'  junin'  'round  when  yu  jumps  'em, 
'n'  yu  caint  eat  'em  up  fast  'nough  by  y'ur  lonesome. 
Cress  'n'  me  '11  jest  nachally  lite  in  'n'  he'p  yu  chew 
up  th'  hull  passle. 

"  Stay  with  th'  herd?  Will  we?  Bet  y'ur  alee  we'll 
[96] 


A    COWBOY    MUTINY 

stay  with  her,  'n'  not  lose  yu  airy  a  cow  or  calf,  'n' 
what's  more,  we'll  stay  wi'  yu  'n'  y'urn  anywhar  till 
hell's  froze  intu  a  skatin'  pond.* 

"  Yu  shore  got  a  pow'rful  variegated  lot  o'  fool 
idees  in  that  thar  little  nut  o'  y'urn  'bout  runnin'  a 
cow  outfit,  'n'  ef  thar's  airy  show  to  git  started  at 
th'  wrong  end  o'  a  job,  it's  been  yu  fer  a  loose  tail- 
holt  every  time.  But  with  this  bunch  o'  hosstile 
sports  y'ur  shore  makin'  no  mistake  in  th'  game 
y'ur  puttin'  up,  'n'  Cress  'n'  me  sits  in  'n'  draws 
cards  cheerful,  don't  we.  Cress  ?  " 

"  We  draws  'n'  plays  th'  hand  plumb  t'  th'  finish, 
01'  Man,"  answered  Sam.  "  Keep  y'ur  eye  screwed 
tight  on  airy  feller  y'ur  talkin'  t'  p'rticular,  'n'  be 
sure  we'll  'tend  t'  all  th'  pressin'est  wants  o'  his  side 
partners.  Lite  into  y'ur  blankets  'n'  pound  y'ur  ear 
a  plenty  'n'  don't  worry  none,  for  hits  'dobe  dol- 
lars t'  tlacos  we'll  either  stampoodle  that  bunch  'thout 
thro  win'  lead  or  else  git  t'  dance  on  their  graves." 

"  Good,  boys,"  I  responded ;  "  I  knew  I  could  bank 
on  you,  and  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  what  you've  said 
and  are  ready  to  do.  I'll  call  the  game  right  after 
breakfast." 

And  then  I  rode  into  camp,  staked  my  horse  and 
rolled  up  in  my  blankets  as  advised.  But  it  was  little 

*Tex  stayed  with  me'five  years;  Cress,  fourteen  years.— The  Author, 

[97] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

indeed  I  slept  until  near  morning,  for  the  task  ahead 
of  me  was  one  the  oldest  and  toughest  trail  boss  could 
not  contemplate  with  any  large  measure  of  enthu- 
siasm. 

The  six  men  I  had  to  deal  with  already  held  my 
authority  in  contempt  and  were  ugly  and  resentful. 
Each  was  doubly  armed,  with  Winchester  and  six- 
shooter.  Four  were  reckless  enough  to  throw  lead  if 
they  felt  they  ought  to,  and  two  were  mean  enough, 
I  well  knew,  to  welcome  the  chance,  both  with  notches 
on  their  guns  unfairly  won  by  "  getting  the  drop." 
Thus  it  seemed  certain  that  when  they  were  forced 
to  confront  the  insult  and  hardship  of  being  "  set 
afoot  to  pack  their  blankets  to  town,"  a  bad  mix-up 
was  inevitable. 

We  breakfasted,  as  usual,  shortly  after  dawn,  be- 
fore good  sun-up,  squatted  closely  about  the  camp- 
fire,  for  already  at  that  altitude  ice  formed  every 
night  along  the  margin  of  the  Laramie.  It  was  a 
silent,  surly  group,  with  none  of  the  usual  jest  and 
badinage  over  "  hen-skin  blankets  "  and  "  fat  hul- 
dys  "  a  cold  morning  usually  inspired. 

Thus  coffee,  beans  and  beef  were  soon  chambered, 
cigarettes  rolled  and  lit,  and  the  outfit  rose. 

Mack  Lambert  was  the  first  to  step  to  his  saddle 
and  pick  up  his  rope  to  catch  his  morning  mount. 
[98] 


A   COWBOY    MUTINY 

"  Drop  that  rope,  you !  "  I  called. 

"  What  in  hell " 

"  Drop  it  and  cut  the  back  talk !  It  means  that 
your  rope  don't  go  on  any  more  Three  Crow  horses, 
and  that  you  and  the  five  other  kickers  have  your 
time,  quit  camp  in  ten  minutes  and  hit  the  trail  for 
the  railroad,  packing  your  blankets,  and  that  any 
man  of  you  that  don't  feel  like  he'd  enjoy  the  prom- 
enade can  go  into  action  right  now !  " 

As  I  spoke  I  had  been  advancing  on  Mack  until, 
finished,  we  stood  close  face  to  face. 

At  first  his  expression  was  one  of  blank  astonish- 
ment, and  then,  as  he  came  to  realise  that  he,  a  full- 
pledged  puncher  from  the  Brazos,  and  his  five  saddle 
mates,  none  of  whom  probably  had  walked  as  much 
as  five  miles  straight  away  in  five  years,  were  about 
to  suffer  the  indignity  of  being  set  afoot  forty  miles 
from  the  railway,  the  lips  tightened  and  eyes  glow- 
ered murderous  hate. 

"  You !  You,  bald-faced  tenderfoot !  Fire  us  t'  hoof 
it  t'  town !  It's  a  dog  trot  for  hell  for  you,  'n'  you 
starts  right  now !  " 

And  at  the  word  his  hand  flashed  back  to  his  pistol, 

but,  before  his  fingers  could  have  tightened  on  the 

butt,  I  landed  a  violent  kick  fair  on  the  flat  of  Mack's 

shin  bone,  that  doubled  him  up,  howling  with  the  pain, 

[99] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

and  gave  me  a  chance  to  snatch  his  pistol  from  its 
scabbard  and  give  him  a  tap  on  the  jaw  with  it  that 
put  him  temporarily  out  of  pain. 

Then  out  came  my  own  gun,  and  with  the  pair  in 
my  hands  I  whirled  on  the  bunch,  wondering  how  it 
came  they  had  left  me  still  alive,  and  expecting  the 
next  instant  to  be  my  last. 

But  there  was  nothing  doing!  All  necessary  was 
already  done — most  efficiently — by  dear  old  Tex. 

And  I  had  been  so  much  preoccupied  that  I  had 
not  even  noted  the  crash  of  his  blow  that  put  an  end 
to  the  one  other  attempt  to  turn  our  little  drama 
into  a  tragedy. 

While  I  was  occupied  with  Mack,  Clark,  the  other 
"  bad  man  "  of  the  lot,  stood  ten  steps  on  my  left 
and  a  little  behind  me. 

At  the  instant  Mack  started  to  draw,  Clark  had 
jerked  his  gun,  but  before  it  was  fairly  free  of  the 
scabbard,  Tex  had  hit  him  a  terrible  smash  with  his 
pistol,  breaking  his  nose,  laying  him  out  stiff,  and 
quickly  swelling  both  eyes  until  they  were  in  poor 
shape  for  accurate  snap-shooting. 

And  then  I  found  that,  all  the  time,  quiet,  easy- 
going Sam  Cress  had  been  sitting  comfortably  on 
the  ground,  with  his  back  against  a  waggon  wheel, 
the  left  knee  drawn  up  for  a  convenient  elbow  rest, 
[100] 


Then  out  came  my  own  gun,  and  with  the  pair  in  my  hands 
I  whirled  on  the  bunch" 


A    COWBOY    MUTINY 

and  his  Winchester  in  his  hands,  ready  to  pot  any 
that  needed  it ! 

Just  as  I  turned  from  Mack,  Sam  remarked : 

"  Fellers,  th'  kid's  dealin'  th'  only  game  thar's  any 
show  t'  sit  in  'round  here ;  I'm  in  th'  '  lookout '  chair, 
'n'  Tex  is  keepin'  cases.  Ef  she  looks  good  t'  yu,  we'll 
be  glad  t'  go  yu  a  whirl.  What  say  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  "  say."  The  two  toughest  were 
down,  unconscious,  the  rest  cowed;  and  a  half 
hour  later  the  six  insubordinates  sullenly  but  quietly 
marched  off  south  through  the  sage  brush. 

It  was  mid-forenoon  of  the  fourth  day  before  I 
got  back  from  Laramie  City  with  a  new  outfit  of  men. 
Tex  and  Sam  were  drawn  and  heavy-eyed  from  their 
long  vigil,  but  not  a  hoof  was  missing  from  the  1,506 
left  in  their  custody!  It  was  a  remarkable  feat  for 
two  men,  and  one  that  would  have  been  impossible 
except  with  a  well-broke  trail  herd  ranging  on  gen- 
erous feed  in  a  country  entirely  free  of  other  cattle. 

Branding  soon  finished  and  a  few  spare  days  al- 
lowed for  resting  the  horses,  a  fortnight  later  we 
swung  the  herd  north  up  Duck  Creek  Valley  to  the 
head  of  "Collin's  Cut  Off,"  the  shortest  route 
through  the  main  range  from  Fort  Laramie  to  Medi- 
cine Bow,  a  mere  pack  trail  of  old  fur-trading  days, 
that  neither  before  or  since,  to  the  best  of  my  belief, 
[101] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

ever  had  a  herd  taken  through  it,  following  a  gorge 
so  narrow,  heavily  timbered,  and  at  times  so  precip- 
itous as  to  be  almost  impassable  to  anything  but  a 
Rocky  Mountain  goat. 

But  time  was  pressing.  Snow  was  already  due,  snow 
that  would  seal  all  the  passes  and  leave  us  to  winter 
on  the  bleak  Laramie  Plains.  So  into  it  we  plunged, 
and  at  last,  after  many  mishaps  and  no  inconsiderable 
loss,  out  of  it  we  came — drifted  down  the  Sabille  to 
the  Laramie,  and  then  across  to  the  Platte,  which  we 
crossed  in  a  heavy  snow-storm  the  very  last  day  be- 
fore ice  formed  so  heavily  in  the  river  that  later 
crossing  became  impossible. 

With  the  snow  come,  we  had  to  winter  where  we 
were. 

A  sheltered  nook  on  Cottonwood  Creek,  twelve 
miles  west  of  Fort  Laramie,  I  chose  for  our  winter 
camp,  and  tight,  warm  diggings  were  soon  finished; 
literally  "  diggings,"  for  the  house  was  a  hole  eigh- 
teen feet  square  dug  in  the  side  of  the  bank,  set  round 
with  Cottonwood  poles,  standing  on  end  close  to- 
gether, the  crevices  chinked  with  mud,  and  roofed 
with  like  poles  covered  with  grass  and  earth,  a  rude 
stone  fireplace  and  chimney  at  the  back. 

The  one  extravagance  about  the  house  was  the 
door.  Lacking  lumber,  the  door  remained  for  some 
[102] 


A    COWBOY    MUTINY 

time  an  unsolved  problem — until  one  day  my  top  cut- 
ting horse  fell  under  Cress  and  broke  a  leg,  leaving 
no  alternative  but  to  shoot  him. 

And  then  a  sound  economic  thought  occurred  to 
the  resourceful  Sam — he  skinned  the  top  cutter, 
stretched  the  green  hide  cleverly  on  a  pole  frame, 
hung  the  frame  on  rawhide  hinges,  and  lo !  we  had  a 
door — loose,  to  be  sure,  of  latch  and  wide  of  crevice, 
but  still  a  door,  a  seventy-five  dollar  door  on  a  ten 
dollar  house ! 

The  outfit  comfortably  settled.  Cress  and  I 
mounted  and  rode  away  south  for  Cheyenne,  he  for 
a  visit  to  his  Texas  home  and  friends,  I  for  a  short 
business  trip  to  New  York. 

Reaching  Cheyenne  early  in  the  forenoon  of  the 
third  day  from  the  ranch,  we  were  not  in  town  an 
hour  before  Cress  came  to  me  with  the  cheerful  news 
that  Mack  Lambert  was  in  town  drunk,  had  heard  of 
my  arrival,  and  was  hunting  me  with  a  gun,  swearing 
to  kill  me  on  sight. 

Mack  sober  I  had  learned  not  to  fear,  except  from 
ambush.  Mack  drunk,  however,  was  certain  to  be  a 
deadly,  dangerous  proposition ;  and  thus  it  happened 
that  I  can  now  recall  that  particular  forenoon  as 
rather  the  most  uncertain  and  uncomfortable  I  ever 
experienced. 

[  103  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

I  had  many  errands  I  could  not  neglect  that  took 
me  all  about  the  town,  and  it  was  just  good  luck  and 
nothing  else  that  we  did  not  meet.  And  when  at  1 :  30 
P.M.  I  rolled  out  of  the  station  bound  eastward,  com- 
fortably settled  on  Pullman  plush,  and  felt  new  miles 
rapidly  stacking  up  between  Mack  and  myself,  I, 
for  a  time,  settled  down  to  serious  study  whether  the 
game  was  worth  the  candle,  and,  after  mature  reflec- 
tion, decided  it  was.. 

A  month  later,  mid-December,  found  me  back  in 
Wyoming,  jogging  alone  northward  on  the  Laramie 
road. 

Late  the  second  afternoon  out  from  Cheyenne,  be- 
tween Chugwater  and  Eagle's  Nest,  ahead  of  me  I 
saw  a  heavily  laden  ranch  supply  wagon,  its  four 
yoke  of  work  cattle  struggling  painfully  through  the 
deep  sand,  in  frequent  sudden  lurching  spurts  caused 
by  the  wicked  lash  of  their  needlessly  cruel  driver, 
who  trudged  afoot  alongside  the  nigh  wheeler. 

And  as  I  approached  the  team,  whom  should  I 
recognise  in  the  bull  whacker  but  Mack  Lambert — 
evidently  stranded  for  a  saddle-seat  by  too  late  a 
spree  in  town  and  forced  to  take  orders  as  a  bull 
whacker,  a  situation  sure  to  have  him  in  willing  tem- 
per for  any  war  play  that  offered ! 

Dodge  I  should  have  been  glad  to,  but  I  did  not 
[104] 


A   COWBOY    MUTINY 

dare  dodge ;  felt  I  could  not  afford  it.  Here  I  had  all 
the  advantage  of  a  complete  surprise ;  any  day  later 
the  chance  of  a  surprise  might  be  his. 

After  his  war  talk  in  Cheyenne  I  should  have  been 
perfectly  justified  in  shooting  him  down  without 
warning — and  from  the  viewpoint  of  my  own  future 
peace  of  mind  it  was  a  great  temptation.  He  or  his 
kind  would  do  no  less ;  why  not  I  ? 

But  that  was  a  trifle  too  large  an  order  in  cow 
range  ethics,  and  so  I  smothered  the  thought  and 
decided  to  tackle  him. 

We  were  alone ;  no  one  in  sight  ahead  or  behind. 

The  groans  of  overloaded  axles  and  the  shrill  creak 
of  straining  yoke-bows  covered  all  sounds  of  my  own 
approach  through  the  heavy  sand  of  the  road  until 
I  was  opposite  the  hind  wheels  of  his  wagon.  Then, 
as  I  saw  him  note  a  strange  sound  and  begin  to  turn, 
I  spurred  forward,  and  in  a  bound  of  my  horse  was 
immediately  upon  him  and  drew  rein. 

For  a  few  seconds  we  glared  at  each  other.  Then 
he  growled: 

"  Well,  by ,  it's  you,  is  it.?  " 

"  Yes,  Mack,  it's  just  me,"  I  replied.  "  And  I've 

something  to  say  to  you.  I've  heard  that  a  month  ago 

you  were  hunting  me  in  Cheyenne,  vowing  to  kill  me 

on  sight.  Now  if  you  have  anything  against  me, 

[105] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

here's  as  fine  a  chance  as  you  could  ask  to  settle  it. 
You  have  your  belt  and  gun  on  and  I  mine,  nobody's 
holding  you,  and  we're  alone.  Bat  an  eye  or  make  a 
move,  and  it  will  be  the  quickest  man  for  a  scalp." 

His  eye  wavered  a  bit,  and  I  knew  I  had  him  on 
the  run.  Then  presently  he  grumbled : 

"  Say,  01'  Man  Kid,  mine  was  jest  nothin'  but 
whiskey  talk  down  t'  Cheyenne.  She  don't  go,  see? 
Yu  shore  handed  me  anything  but  prittys  over  on  th' 
Laramie,  but  I  reckon  I  got  no  more  'n  was  a  comin' 
t'  me  for  undersizin'  y'ur  play.  Reckon  'fore  I  tackle 
another  tende'foot  kid  I'll  set  up  long  'nough  nights 
t'  larn  whether  his  system  is  fullest  o'  deuces  or 
aces ! " 

"  Quite  sure  you've  no  kick.  Mack  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  None  but  that  little  lovin'  one  yu  give  me  on  th' 
Laramie,  'n'  I  allow  I  was  due  for  it,"  he  half-grinned. 

"  Well,  so  long  then.  Mack,"  I  said,  and  trotted 
slowly  ahead,  half -turned  in  my  saddle  to  make  sure 
he  did  not  change  his  mind. 


[106] 


CHAPTER    SIX 
WINTERING  AMONG  RUSTLERS 

I  RETURNED  to  my  winter  camp  on  Cotton- 
wood in  a  fierce  mid-December  blizzard,  the  first 
of  the  season,  the  temperature  so  low  that  little 
snow  was  falling,  but  the  wind  so  high  that  it  lifted 
and  filled  the  air  with  what  seemed  almost  solid  masses 
of  the  last  fall,  that,  driving  horizontally  before  a 
thirty  or  forty  mile  wind,  made  it  nearly  impossible 
for  man  and  horse  to  face  it. 

But  my  mount,  "  Alizan,"  a  stout-hearted,  heavy- 
muscled  sorrel  half-breed,  struggled  bravely  against 
the  bitter  blasts  sweeping  the  ridges  and  wallowed 
stubbornly  through  the  drifts  filling  the  hollows,  and 
finally,  more  by  his  own  instinct  than  my  guidance, 
brought  me  safely  to  the  ranch  door  a  little  after 
sundown. 

And  lucky  it  was  we  came  up  squarely  in  front  of 

the   eighteen-foot   dugout,    for   little   enough    of   it 

showed  above  the  all-mantling  snow ;  a  narrow  ribbon 

of  light   outlined  the  loosely   set  door;  a  grayish 

[  107  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

column  of  smoke,  faintly  gold-tinted  by  its  mother 
flames,  rose  from  the  great  chimney  and  swept  swiftly 
away  southeast  into  the  night — that  was  all. 

Howl  and  bluster  as  it  might  without,  within  all 
was  good  cheer  and  rude  comfort. 

Big,  dry  juniper  logs  were  roaring  with  joy  of 
the  light  and  warmth  they  were  bringing  us ;  in  a 
comer  of  the  fireplace  a  kettle  of  dried  apples  stewed 
and  quietly  simmered,  cuddled  contentedly  alongside 
a  coffee  pot,  whose  contents  bubbled  riotously  in  pride 
of  its  amber  strength;  across  the  fire  a  pot-bellied 
Dutch  oven  and  its  glowing  crest  of  live  coals  in  char- 
acteristic stolid  silence  wrought  out  its  task  of  pro- 
ducing us  a  crisp  brown  loaf;  no  Httle  annoyed, 
doubtless,  by  the  half  score  slices  of  fat  bacon  siz- 
zling and  sputtering  angrily  near  by. 

The  dugout  I  found  transformed.  I  had  left  it  a 
month  before  empty  of  all  furniture,  the  mud  chink- 
ing on  the  walls  scarce  dry.  During  my  absence  the 
boys  had  furnished  it — not  sumptuously,  to  be  sure, 
but  fully  and  comfortably. 

A  table  and  stools  the  axes  had  served  to  produce 
out  of  poles  and  hewn  slabs;  four  stout  bedstead 
frames  had  been  built  against  the  walls,  two  to  right 
and  two  to  left  of  the  door,  and  a  rawhide  slung  by 
its  four  corners  to  each  of  the  bedstead  frames  made 
[108] 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

a  mattress  not  entirely  devioid  of  flexibility ;  three  or 
four  tomato  can  cases  nailed  to  the  wall  served  as 
pantry ;  wooden  hooks  above  each  bunk  held  the  rifles 
and  belts ;  the  space  beneath  the  bunks  served  as  store- 
room and  was  packed  with  spare  supplies;  a  bunch 
of  willow  twigs  bound  tightly  about  an  end  of  a  pole 
made  a  tolerable  broom,  and  the  tawny  skin  of  a  big 
mountain  lion  (prey  to  Tex's  rifle)  lay  as  a  rug  be- 
fore the  bunk  held  inviolate  for  me. 

And  roughly  fashioned,  with  no  tools  other  than 
axe  and  saw,  made  without  scrap  of  lumber,  iron  or 
glass  as  were  the  dugout  and  its  fittings,  proud  as 
Lucifer  was  I  of  this  the  first  house  I  ever  owned,  and 
happy  in  it  as  in  any  more  pretentious  that  since 
has  sheltered  me. 

Tex  I  found  well  but  worried — ^badly  worried. 

"  Pow'ful  glad  t'  see  yu  back,  01'  Man ;  done  needed 
yu  fo'  a  week,"  he  greeted. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Tex?"  I  asked;  "Indians 
been  in  on  you?  " 

"  Nop,  nary  Injun ;  no'  sign." 

"  Any  rustlers  out  brand  burning?  " 

"Nop!" 

"  Lost  any  horses  ?  " 

"  Nop !  " 

"  Coyote  chewed  up  your  pet  rawhide  riata?  " 
[109] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

"Nop!" 

"  '  Balaam  '  "  (a  little  Spanish  mule  and  Tex's  fa- 
vourite mount  for  range  riding)  "  gone  lame?  " 

"Nop!" 

"  Well,  then,  whatever  is  the  trouble,  Tex  ?  " 

"  Hell's  own  plenty  o'  trouble;  that  thar  OP  Man 
Mack  on  Muskrat  Creek's  plumb  crazy,  'n'  unsafe  t' 
be  loose  'mong  whites ;  shore  t'  do  some  o'  us  up  or 
butt  his  fool  haid  off  agin  a  rock;  ought  t'  be  es- 
corted back  t'  his  folks  'n'  took  care  of." 

Mack  &  Peers  were  our  nearest  neighbours,  small 
ranchmen  living  eighteen  miles  away,  whose  acquain- 
tance I  had  made  shortly  before  going  East  in  No- 
vember. 

Peers  was  a  fine  type  of  Pike  County  Missourian, 
a  keen,  alert,  capable,  all-round  frontiersman  and 
cowman. 

Mack  was  a  man  of  education  and  polish,  plainly 
well  bred,  past  fifty,  carefully  grammatical  of  speech 
as  well  as  one  could  judge  from  the  little  he  said,  for 
he  was  quiet  and  reserved  to  the  point  of  downright 
taciturnity — a  sad-faced,  gentle  man  who  tended  the 
ranch  while  his  partner  Peers  rode  the  range,  evi- 
dently nursing  memories  of  some  grief  or  trouble 
from  which  he  there  sought  exile  amid  rude  surround- 
ings in  which  he  always  remained  a  pathetic  misfit. 
[110] 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

Thus  it  was  with  the  greatest  surprise  I  que- 
ried: 

"  Whatever  is  the  matter  with  Mr.  Mack,  Tex?  " 

"  Jest  adzactly  what  I  tells  yu — crazy  as  a  locoed 
steer." 

"  So  ?  Has  he  been  making  any  war  plays  ?  " 

"  Nix ;  not  yet ;  but  he's  shore  to — that's  what- 
ever. Ain't  at  hisself  at  all." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  How  did  you  find  it  out, 
Tex?" 

"  Wall,  it's  thisaway.  'Bout  a  week  ago,  while 
me  'n'  *  Balaam '  was  out  sign  ridin',  we  struck  a 
bunch  o'  strays  strung  out  for  Muskrat,  'n'  it  come 
night  'fore  we  got  'em  headed  and  swung  back  toward 
th'  home  range. 

"  It  was  so  late,  I  'lowed  me  'n'  th'  mule  would  see 
if  we  could  git  t'  stay  all  night  at  Mack  &  Peers's 
camp.  So  up  I  rides  'n'  hollers,  'n'  gits  down. 

"  Hearin'  me  holler,  out  come  ol'  Mack  hisself,  'n' 
right  off  he  axes  me  t'  onsaddle  'n'  put  th'  mule  in  th' 
shed ;  which-all  suited  '  Balaam '  'n'  me  special,  for 
a  nor'easter  was  blowin'  we'd  a  had  to  go  quarterin' 
agin  t'  git  home  that  thar  was  no  sorta  show  t'  git 
overhet  in. 

"  When  I  got  in  th'  cabin,  thar  was  ol'  Mack  put- 
terin'  'bout  th'  fireplace,  cookin'  supper.   He  give 

[111] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

me  a  stool  in  th'  chimley  corner,  'n'  then  to?  me 
Peers  had  went  t'  th'  Fort  for  th'  mail,  'n'  'lowed  t' 
stay  thar  all  night — wanted  t'  tank  up  a  few  on  red 
eye,  I  reckon,  at  Bullock's  store. 

"  'N'  that  was  jest  nachally  all  th'  news  I  got  out 
o'  01'  Man  Mack  th'  hull  night — never  said  another 
dod-blamed  word  but  *  yes  '  'n'  '  no  '  until  th'  next 
mornin',  when,  by  strainin'  his  system  horrible,  he 
did  git  t'  give  up  a  '  good-bye  '  when  I  rode  oif . 

"  She  was  a  hell  o'  a  unsociable  evenin',  yu  can  bet 
y'ur  alee  on  that. 

"  Feelin'  as  vis'tur  it  was  up  t'  me  t'  be  entertainin', 
I  tried  t'  talk,  by  making  remarks  'bout  th'  weather, 
'n'  Injuns,  'n'  rustlers,  'n'  how  th'  Platte  was  froze 
so  nigh  solid,  'n'  snow  layin'  so  thick,  thar  was  mighty 
little  fo'  stock  t'  eat  o'  drink,  makin^  'em  shore  t' 
come  out  pore  'n'  weak  in  th'  spring. 

"  But  fo'  all  the  response  it  fetched  out  o'  him,  I 
might  as  well  a  been  talkin'  t'  a  bunch  o'  remains. 

"  His  listeners  'peared  t'  be  workin'  all  right,  fo' 
sometimes  he'd  loosen  up  t'  th'  extent  o'  a  '  yes  '  o' 
*  nop,'  but  that  was  all. 

"  'N'  yet  he  was  mighty  kind  like — give  me  tobacco 

'n'  papers,  'n'  books  t'  look  at.  Books!  He  was  sar- 

tenly  hell  on  books — ^had  th'  dod-burned  little  ol' 

cabin  full  o'  them,  'nough  t'  run  all  the  deestrict 

[  112  ] 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

schools  in  th'  hull  state  o'  Texas.  Books !  He  had  long 
ones  'n'  short  ones,  fat  ones  'n'  thin  ones,  some  in 
leather  scabbards  'n'  some  jest  wrapt  in  paper,  lots 

o'  them  with  pictures  o'  more  d n  queer  things  I 

never  heerd  of  than  I  could  tell  yu  'bout  in  a  year. 
Books!  Why,  honest,  I  reckon  that  oP  feller  's  got 
more  books  than  anybody  else  in  the  world,  'n'  has 
got  so  used  t'  gittin'  all  his  back  talk  outen  them  that 
it's  jest  got  t'  be  onhandy  fo'  him  t'  use  his  tongue* 
wi'  humans. 

"  Wall,  finally  he  gits  supper  ready,  'n'  we  eats. 
'N'  she  was  a  shore  pea-warmer  o'  a  supper,  good  as 
women-folks's  cookin' ;  raised  hot  bread  'n'  a  puddin' 
that  'd  make  a  puncher  jest  nachally  want  t'  marry 
'n'  live  wi'  th'  cook  that  made  it. 

"  After  supper  I  smokes  'n'  smoKes,  while  he  plumb 
loses  his  ol'  self  in  a  book. 

"  Finally,  come  bed-time,  he  give  me  a  nice  bunk, 
'n'  I  pulls  off  my  coat,  hat,  spurs  'n'  boots,  'n'  gits 
intu  th'  blankets. 

"  Then  what  'n  hell  does  yu  allow  that  ol'  feller 
did.''  You'd  never  guess  in  a  thousand  year!  'Fore 
that  I  thought  he  was  jest  queer  o'  his  ways,  but  when 
he  did  thaty  I  made  so  sure  he  was  plumb  dangerous 
crazy  it  scairt  me  so  bad  I  never  shet  an  eye  th'  hull 
night  long." 

[  113  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"  Nonsense,  Tex,"  I  interrupted,  "  Mack  isn't 
crazy." 

"  Crazy  I  "  he  resumed,  "  it's  me   tellin'   yu  he's 

crazy  as  a  d d  bedbug,  'n'  I  got  th'  goods  t' 

prove  it ;  f o'  right  thar  in  th'  cabin,  bef o'  me,  he  pulls 
off  every  last  stitch  o'  clothes  he  had  on,  'n'  then  he 
up  'w'  puts  on  his  oV  carcass  a  great  long  white 
woman^s  dress  reachin*  plumb  down  t*  his  feet,  'w' 
goes  f  bed  in  it!  Yes,  sir,  that's  jest  what  he  did ;  I'll 
swear  t'  it;  'n'  I  reckon  now  yu-all  '11  admit  he's 
crazy ! " 

Dear  old  brush-bred  Tex  had  never  even  heard  of 
such  a  thing  as  a  nightgown,  and  I  never  was  quite 
sure  I  succeeded  in  fully  convincing  him  that  no  in- 
considerable part  of  humanity  always  so  habited 
themselves  for  their  nightly  repose!  Certain  it  was 
that  he  never  got  it  out  of  his  head  that  Mack  was 
an  unsafe  intellectual  freak. 

The  next  day  I  dropped  into  ranch  routine. 

Our  most  important  work  was  daily  range  riding, 
to  throw  back  into  the  range  any  cattle  straying 
from  it,  and  to  make  sure  no  depredations  by  Indians 
or  rustlers  were  going  on. 

Our  position  was  unusually  exposed.  At  the  time 
throughout  its  long  sweep  southeast  from  the  Sweet- 
water in  Central  Wyoming  to  Blue  Creek  in  Nebras- 
[114] 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

ka,  there  were  only  three  herds  north  of  the  North 
Platte  River — ^Mack  &  Peers's  outfit  on  Muskrat, 
Pratt  &  Ferris  twenty-five  miles  east  of  me  on  Raw- 
hide, and  mine  on  Cottonwood,  all  of  us  moved  in  that 
same  season. 

To  the  north  two  hundred  and  thirty  miles  lay  the 
then  new  mining  camp  of  Deadwood,  in  the  heart  of 
the  Black  Hills,  with  no  intervening  habitation  of 
white  men  save  the  stock-tenders'  cabins,  twelve  to 
eighteen  miles  apart,  on  the  main  stage  road  from 
Cheyenne. 

In  those  days  in  isolated  Deadwood  money  was 
often  five  per  cent  a  month,  flour  one  hundred  dollars 
a  sack,  and  beef  anything  its  possessor  had  nerve 
enough  to  ask  for  it. 

Thus  our  exposed  herds  were  a  great  temptation 
to  the  lawless. 

Within  a  week  after  my  return  we  discovered  our 
"  Three  Crow  "  brand  {^  '^)  had  been  spotted  for 
an  easy  mark,  chiefly,  I  suppose,  as  the  property  of 
a  tenderfoot. 

First  we  discovered  several  head  of  cattle  show- 
ing brand  disfigurement,  the  first  two  "  crows " 
made  into  "  B's,"  and  the  third  into  an  "  8,"  thus 

The  disfigurement  was  so  plainly  obvious  that  it 
[115] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

seemed  evident'  the  rustlers  planned  to  run  a  blazer 
on  us  by  undertaking  to  cut  them  on  the  spring 
round-up  under  cover  of  a  gun  bluff. 

Later  we  came  on  little  branding  fires  in  the  rough 
hill  country  where  they  had  been  at  work  on  our  cows 
with  their  running-irons,  several  times  when  the 
ashes  were  still  hot,  and  the  rustlers  gone  barely  an 
hour. 

But  trail  them  we  could  not,  for  their  horses' 
hoofs  were  heavily  padded  with  gunny-sacks  and  the 
country  was  so  rocky  that  even  lynx-eyed  Tex  could 
not  follow  them. 

Perhaps  this  brand  burning  in  the  heart  of  our 
range  was  only  a  ruse.  In  any  event,  we  were  so  keen 
to  catch  the  marauders  red-handed  at  their  work  that 
for  several  weeks  we  neglected  our  north  boundary 
sign  riding  to  scout  for  the  thieves. 

Thus  it  happened  that  late  one  afternoon  early  in 
February  two  punchers,  who  had  gone  out  that  morn- 
ing to  ride  our  north  line,  dashed  up  to  the  ranch  on 
trembling,  steaming  horses,  with  the  news  they  had 
found  a  trail,  about  two  weeks'  old,  of  seventy  odd 
head  of  cattle  driven  away  into  the  north  by  three 
men. 

Plainly  they  could  have  but  one  destination.  Dead- 
wood,  where,  if  driven  at  top  speed,  as  they  must  have 
[116] 


•-J 
o 

2. 
< 
tt> 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

been,  they  were  due  to  arrive  the  very  day  we  discov- 
ered the  theft. 

Thus  the  only  sure  chance  of  saving  them  lay  in  a 
dash  through  to  Deadwood  by  stage-coach  before 
they  were  butchered  and  the  hides  safely  disposed  of. 

At  once  I  decided  to  take  the  night  coach  north, 
due  at  Canon  Springs  station,  two  miles  from  the 
ranch,  at  9 :  00  p.m. 

It  was  a  bitter  night,  the  thermometer  forty  to 
fifty  degrees  below  zero.  That,  however,  did  not 
matter,  for  I  rode  over  to  the  station  comfort- 
ably bundled  in  arctics,  goat-skin  leggings,  and 
buffalo  overcoat,  with  a  spare  buffalo  robe  for 
my  lap. 

Presently  we  heard  the  thud  of  hoofs  and  the 
crunch  of  wheels  far  away  through  the  chill,  still 
night;  then  two  lights  rose  like  great  stars  above  a 
hill  crest  and  dimly  outlined  the  team ;  then  came  the 
driver's  "  Yip !  Yip  !  Yip !  "  call  to  the  stock-tender, 
and  in  rolled  the  old  thorough-brace  coach  and  its 
puffing,  steaming  team  of  six,  with  old  Tom  Cooper 
on  the  box — Cooper,  a  famous  half-breed  driver,  who 
lost  his  life  a  few  years  later,  by  the  failure  of  his 
brakes  on  a  Leadville  grade. 

The  team  was  quickly  changed,  while  Tom  and  I 
had  a  drink,  and  then  into  the  coach  I  climbed,  Tom 
[117] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

mounted  his  box,  gathered  up  the  ribbons,  cracked 
his  whip,  and  into  their  collars  sprang  the  fresh  team 
at  a  pace  that  set  the  old  coach  pitching,  tossing,  and 
pounding  like  a  bark  in  a  storm. 

The  coach  held  only  one  other  passenger,  settled  in 
a  corner  of  the  rear  seat.  I  took  the  corner  beside 
him,  wrapped  my  legs  in  the  spare  robe,  and  com- 
posed myself  for  a  nap. 

But  sleep  was  not  for  me — immediately.  By  the 
way  he  loosely  rolled  to  the  pitching  of  the  coach  and 
by  the  odours  emanating  from  his  corner,  it  was  soon 
made  plain  to  me  my  coach  mate  was  comfortably 
drunk. 

And  I  had  little  more  than  time  to  make  the  dis- 
covery before  he  nudged  me  sharply  in  the  ribs  and 
gurgled : 

"  Shay,  pardner,  t'day  's  Shunday.  Ze  Holy  Sab- 
bath! Don'  you  sink  we  oughta  do  shumthing  t'  cel'- 
brate  th'day.?" 

It  was,  in  truth,  Sunday,  and  I  agreed  with  him, 
but  suggested  we  were  at  the  moment  lacking  all 
usual  facilities  for  any  sort  of  orthodox  or  unortho- 
dox observance  of  the  day.  But  this  did  not  in  the 
least  non-plus  my  bibulous  neighbour. 

"  Tell  you  wha'  we'll  do,"  he  answered ;  "  I'll  betcha 

th'  best  d ^n  gallon  'r  whiskey  we  can  buy  in 

[118] 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

Deadwood  that  I  can  shing  more  d n  Shunday 

School  songs  'n  you  can,  shingin'  turn  'bout." 

While  startling  and,  under  the  terms  proposed, 
more  of  a  desecration  than  an  observance  of  the  day, 
it  struck  me  that,  partly  as  a  matter  of  pride  and 
partly  of  duty,  I  ought  to  accept  his  bet. 

He  was  three  fourths  drunk,  I  cold  sober,  and  also 
some  years  shorter  removed  from  Sunday  School  days 
than  he.  He  would  doubtless  sing  in  a  wanton  spirit, 
but  I  could  sing  in  a  devout,  so  long  as  my  reper- 
toire held  out. 

So  I  accepted,  and  we  shook  hands  on  the  wager. 

Courteously  conceding  the  opening  to  me,  I  sang 
the  only  Sunday  School  hymn  I  felt  certain  I  knew 
from  start  to  finish,  "  Shall  We  Gather  at  the 
River?" 

Finished,  he  continued,  appropriately  it  seemed  to 
me,  with  "  A  Charge  to  Keep  I  Have,"  and  never 
missed  a  line  or  word,  though  often  driven  sadly  out 
of  time  by  interloping  hiccoughs. 

His  turn  done,  he  mumbled : 

"  Zalmighty  dry  work  tryin'  t'  keep  Shunday, 
pardner ;  le's  take  a  drink." 

And,  thinking  the  sooner  'twas  over  the  sooner  I'd 
sleep,  we  drank. 

Then  it  was  up  to  me,  and  I  gave  him,  in  my  best 
[119] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

form,  two  verses  of  "  From  Greenland's  Icy  Moun- 
tains," all  I  could  remember,  and  stopped,  certain  I 
had  lost  on  the  second  round. 

But  instead,  cheerfully  oblivious  to  the  paucity  of 
verses,  he  made  many  a  vocal  stumble  through  the 
measure  of  "  I  Hunger  and  I  Thirst,"  but  diligently 
skipped  no  lines. 

And  out  of  deference  to  the  theme  of  his  song,  I 
consented  to  take  another  drink. 

Here  I  caught  my  second  wind,  though  I  did  not 
hold  it  long,  and  contrived  to  finish  all  three  verses  of 
"  Watchman,  Tell  Us  of  the  Night." 

Next  he  promptly  responded  with  some  long-whis- 
kered old  residenter  of  a  hymn,  gabbling  honestly 
through  from  its  beginning  to  its  end. 

And  so  we  went  on  for  more  than  an  hour,  I  soon 
driven  into  snatches  of  operatic  airs  and  comic  songs, 
any  scrap  of  musical  flotsam  still  adrift  in  the  current 
of  my  memory,  he  sticking  faithfully  to  the  text  if 
not  the  tune  of  some  hoary  hymn. 

Memory  served  him  well  to  the  last — to  the  last 
drop  in  the  bottle,  when,  after  two  or  three  false 
starts  at  "  Laboring  and  Heavy  Laden,"  he  suddenly 
dropped  into  a  snore  more  rhythmic  than  his  song. 

Late  the  next  morning,  while  the  team  was  plough- 
ing slowly  through  the  drifts  along  the  valley  of  Old 
[  1^0  ] 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

Woman's  Fork,  he  awoke,  notably  the  worse  for  the 
preceding  evening's  service,  and  hazy  about  its  hap- 
penings, but  cheerful. 

"  Pardner,"  he  remarked,  "  allow  me  to  hand  you 
my  respects  and  acknowledgments.  I  sure  thought 
I  was  the  chief  as  a  hymn  whooper,  but  you  beat  me 
so  easy  and  done  it  so  hard  it  would  appear  to  the 
undersigned  you  must  have  spent  most  of  your  life 
setting  atop  of  a  Sunday  School  organ.  The  gallon 
is  yours,  and  the  cost  mine !  " 

And  when,  to  spare  his  pride  of  memory,  I  deli- 
cately hinted  that  I  had  been  forced  to  make  ex- 
cursions wide  afield  of  any  hymn  book  ever  printed, 
and,  therefore,  was  myself  the  loser  of  the  bet,  he 
studied  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  blurted  out : 

"  Well,  I  will  be  d d ;  pardner,  Deadwood  gets 

to  sell  two  gallons,  and  one  of  them's  yours  !  " 

All  day  and  night  we  trundled  on,  crunching 
through  the  snow — across  the  divide  to  Crazy 
Woman's  Fork,  down  its  valley  to  Lightning  Creek, 
down  Lance  to  the  Cheyenne  River,  crossing  the 
Cheyenne  on  the  ice  and  climbing  toward  the  south- 
western buttresses  of  the  Black  Hills. 

A  little  after  daylight  we  breakfasted  at  Jenny's 
Stockade,  and  the  second  afternoon  made  Deadwood. 

At  the  stations  along  the  route  I  had  made  inquiry 
[121] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

for  my  quarry,  but  they  had  not  been  seen.  Later  I 
learned  that  they  had  swung  farther  east  and  gone 
in  over  the  Custer  City  trail. 

By  evening  I  had  all  the  information  I  needed. 
The  rustlers  had  arrived  near  Deadwood  three  days 
ahead  of  me.  Three  men  had  brought  the  cattle  in, 
the  leader  (a  bad  man  with  the  misleading  name  of 
Goodfellow!)  had  sold  them  to  a  local  butcher,  and 
the  butcher  had  driven  them  out  to  his  winter  camp 
on  Whitewood  Gulch  twenty-five  miles  north. 

Goodfellow  and  his  partners  had  jumped  the  town 
the  night  of  the  sale,  in  what  direction  I  could  then 
find  no  one  to  tell  me. 

That  night  I  turned  in  early  at  the  Grand  Central 
Hotel  tired  and  sore  from  the  two  days  and  nights' 
pounding  in  the  coach.  My  room  was  narrow  as  a 
cell,  little  more  than  the  width  of  the  single  bed. 

I  was  that  tired  I  was  wakeful,  and,  to  make  sleep 
more  difficult,  rats  were  making  an  awful  racket,  ap- 
parently in  the  wall  opposite  the  bed.  Getting  one  of 
my  heavy  boots  by  the  strap,  I  struck  a  violent  blow 
at  the  wall,  when  boot  and  arm  disappeared  through 
the  cotton  sheeting  and  paper  that  alone  formed  the 
partition,  my  boot  hitting  the  sleeper  in  the  next 
room  a  crack  in  the  face  that  took  all  my  eloquence 
to  satisfactorily  explain. 


1 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

Shortly  after  daylight  the  next  morning  I  routed 
out  the  butcher  from  the  lodgings  where  I  had  lo- 
cated him  the  night  before. 

Naturally  he  was  anything  but  glad  to  meet  me, 
and  began  by  disputing  my  identity  and  authority 
as  owner,  for  the  only  credentials  I  carried  were 
wrapped  up  in  whatever  modest  measure  of  gall  I 
possessed. 

Indeed,  he  indulged  in  some  very  plain  war  talk, 
and  urged  me  to  go  where  the  climate  was  so  far  the 
reverse  of  Deadwood's  I  doubted  if  I  could  stand  the 
shock  of  the  change. 

Moreover,  I  wanted  my  cattle,  or  their  price,  so  I 
stuck  to  him,  and  finally  finished  by  persuading  him 
it  would  be  helpful  to  his  health  to  breakfast  with  me 
at  the  Grand  Central  and  saddle  up  and  ride  out  with 
me  to  Whitewood  to  examine  the  cattle. 

It  was  a  lonely  ride,  that  twenty-five  miles,  over  a 
little-used  trail  across  thickly  timbered  hills  and 
gulches,  a  ride  I  doubtless  never  would  have  finished 
had  I  not  required  him  to  ride  ahead  of  me  from  its 
beginning  to  its  end. 

And  a  sad  pity  it  was  I  had  so  little  time  to  give 
to  the  local  scenery,  for  it  was  altogether  the  most 
beautiful  I  can  recall. 

The  day  before  there  had  been  a  rise  in  temper- 
.  [  123  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

ature,  followed  by  a  heavy  sleet  storm  through  the 
night  that  had  sheeted  all  nature  in  crystal.  Then  the 
wind  had  shifted  into  the  north  and  the  temperature 
had  dropped  to  fifty-two  degrees  below  zero,  and  so 
held  all  day,  leaving  the  air  still  as  death,  not  the 
faintest  whiff  of  a  breeze. 

It  was  a  savage  fairy  land  we  traversed. 

Gaunt  rocks,  tall  pines,  broad  balsams,  slender 
birches,  yellow  grass  all  ice-incrusted,  gleaming  now  a 
shimmering  white  and  then  reflecting  every  delicate 
rainbow  tint,  each  separate  pinnacle,  twig  and  blade 
a  crystal-clad  miracle  of  beauty  to  make  one  pause 
in  admiring  awe. 

But  with  eyes  glued  to  every  move  of  the  grim 
figure  in  a  great  bearskin  coat  jogging  along  at  a 
dog  trot  ahead  of  me,  all  I  saw  of  the  scenery  was 
what  lay  straight  ahead  of  me  or  could  be  caught  out 
of  the  tail  of  the  eye,  for  I  well  knew  he  would  wel- 
come half  a  chance  to  beef  me  and  leave  me  on  the 
trail. 

We  reached  his  camp  in  Whitewood  about  noon. 

The  two  men  occupying  the  camp  looked  tough  as 
the  wild  range  life  usually  makes  men  naturally  of  a 
reckless,  evil  bent,  and  after  the  first  glance  from 
their  employer,  their  lowering  looks  showed  plainly  I 
had  been  tipped  to  them  as  an  enemy. 
[124] 


WINTERING   AMONG    RUSTLERS 

They  proposed  dinner,  but  the  situation  was  one 
so  little  conducive  to  comfortable  dining  and  the 
effective  digestion  of  one's  food  that  I  vetoed  the 
dinner  and  insisted  on  riding  up  a  near-by  side  gulch 
where  the  cattle  were  ranging. 

Indeed,  the  trio  to  me  looked  so  far  from  good  I 
offered  six  separate  arguments,  each  tightly  bound  in 
neat  brass  covers,  why  it  would  be  better  if  they  left 
all  their  arms  at  the  camp,  arguments  so  weighty 
that,  preferring  to  see  rather  than  to  feel  their  force, 
they  complied. 

Then  we  rode  out  and  bunched  the  little  herd,  and 
there  among  them,  sure  enough,  were  no  less  than 
seventy-six  of  my  "  Three  Crow  "  cows ! 

So  far  so  good,  but  now  I  had  to  make  a  get-away, 
for  the  solitude  of  Whitewood  Gulch  was  no  con- 
venient place  to  debate  restitution  or  settlement. 

This  however,  proved  fairly  easy  of  arrangement, 
for  at  my  request  my  butcher  friend  kindly  consented 
to  tie  on  his  saddle  the  two  rifles  and  two  six-shooters 
belonging  to  his  men  and  pack  them  back  to  Dead- 
wood,  and  the  men  were  good  enough  to  unsaddle  and 
turn  loose  their  two  ponies,  leaving  them  free  to  take 
a  good  rest  before  undertaking  the  all-day  task  of 
trying  afoot  to  round  up  and  catch  fresh  mounts ! 

Thus  it  happened  that  I  was  able  to  follow  my 

[  125  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

butcher  friend  back  into  Deadwood  secure  against  a 
rear  attack  or  a  wide  circle  ahead  of  us  and  an  am- 
bush by  his  men. 

There  was  not  much  conversation  during  our  re- 
turn ride,  for  night  was  nearing,  and  I  so  little  liked 
a  prospect  of  the  butcher  for  a  bed-mate  that  most 
of  the  way  we  hit  the  trail  at  a  lope. 

Occasional  slacking  of  pace  to  rest  our  horses, 
however,  made  me  opportunity  for  a  few  remarks  he 
took  as  so  pointed  that  before  we  parted  that  night 
he  had  paid  me  about  twice  what  the  seventy-six  cows 
were  worth  on  my  own  range — and  yet  had  a  bargain 
at  prevailing  local  prices  that  easily  doubled  his  total 
investment  in  "  Three  Crow  "  beef. 

A  few  weeks  later  Goodfellow  and  Jack  Handley 
were  run  into  their  holes  and  the  holes  plugged  up — 
permanently;  the  third  man  escaped  to  Texas — also 
permanently. 


[126] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 
A  FINISH  FIGHT  FOR  A  BIRTHRIGHT 

TO  behold  the  inroads  of  autumn  upon  the  foli- 
age of  a  noble  forest;  to  watch  a  rose  fade 
and  see  its  withered  petals  fall  to  earth;  to 
see  a  beast  in  its  death  throes;  to  witness  the  last 
agony  of  a  fellow-mortal,  even  though  he  be  a  stran- 
ger and  nothing  to  you  in  the  world — any  of  these  is 
a  sufficiently  saddening  incident  to  a  man  of  average 
susceptibility. 

Happily  enough,  therefore,  it  has  come  to  few  men 
to  witness  the  final  dissolution  of  a  people,  even 
though  that  people  be  a  savage  tribe  every  page  of 
whose  history  is  dark  with  deeds  of  barbarism.  Such, 
however,  has  been  my  lot,  and  the  scenes,  incidents, 
and  characters  of  the  dread  spectacle  are  as  fresh  on 
my  mind  to-day  as  if  they  were  of  yesterday. 

In  the  autumn  of  '77  I  bought  my  first  herd  of 
cattle  at  Cooper  Lake  on  Laramie  Plains,  west  of  the 
main  range  of  the  Rockies.  The  country  lying  be- 
tween the  Union  Pacific  Railway  and  the  Platte  was 
[1^7] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

then  fairly  well  stocked  and  the  best  ranges  occu- 
pied. But,  up  to  that  time,  the  North  Platte  River 
had  stood  the  dead  line  between  the  Sioux  and  the 
ranchmen,  a  dead  line  never  crossed  by  ranchmen, 
except  in  occasional  trailing  parties  in  pursuit  (and 
usually  a  hopeless  pursuit)  of  stolen,  horses  taken 
by  the  raiding  Sioux. 

All  of  the  two  thirds  of  Wyoming  lying  to  the 
north  of  the  North  Platte  River,  all  of  the  two  thirds 
of  Montana  lying  to  the  east  of  a  line  drawn  through 
Bozeman  and  Fort  Benton,  all  of  the  two  Dakotas 
west  of  Fort  Pierre  and  Yankton,  and  all  of  the 
northwest  quarter  of  the  State  of  Nebraska — a  vast 
area  of  roughly  three  hundred  thousand  square 
miles,  greater  in  extent  than  all  of  New  England 
with  the  States  of  New  Jersey,  New  York,  Ohio, 
Pennsylvania,  Virginia,  West  Virginia,  and  half  of 
Kentucky  thrown  in — ^held  no  white  man's  habitation, 
save  the  little  camp  of  miners  in  the  Black  Hills,  and 
had  for  its  only  tenants  nomad  bands  of  Cheyennes 
and  of  Ogallala,  Brule  and  Uncapapa  Sioux,  the  an- 
cient lords  of  this  most  noble  manor. 

To  be  sure,  a  treaty  had  been  had  and  the  Sioux 

title  proper  was  recognised  by  the  Government  over 

none  of  this  territory  excepting  a  part  of  the  two 

Dakotas  lying  west  of  the  Missouri  and  north  of  the 

[128] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

White  River.  Thus,  technically,  the  rest  of  this  great 
area  was  open  to  occupation  and  settlement,  but  it 
was  still  ranged  from  end  to  end  by  war  parties  re- 
sentful of  the  treaty  terms,  which  had  taken  from 
them  the  best-beloved  part  of  their  domain,  the  Black 
Hills,  and  limited  them  to  the  wastes  of  the  Dakota 
Bad  Lands. 

With  the  country  to  the  south  of  the  Platte  more 
or  less  crowded  with  ranches,  it  was  plain  the  time 
had  come  when  seekers  for  attractive  free  ranges 
must  venture  north  of  the  Platte  into  the  Sioux  do- 
main ;  and  bar  one  ranch  located  by  Pratt  &  Ferris 
immediately  on  the  Platte  River  to  the  east  of  Fort 
Laramie,  I  was  the  first  man  to  carry  a  herd  of  cattle 
into  the  heart  of  the  Sioux  country,  and  there  locate 
and  permanently  maintain  a  ranch. 

Starting  from  Cooper  Lake  on  Laramie  Plains 
rather  late  in  the  autumn  of  '77,  trailing  through 
the  Rockies,  by  Collin's  Cut  Off,  to  the  Sabille,  thence 
down  to  the  Laramie  River,  and  down  the  Laramie 
to  Butch  Phillips's  ranch,  I  there  crossed  to  the 
Platte  River,  and  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  arrive 
in  time  to  swim  it  the  very  night  before  it  froze 
over. 

With  the  cold  weather  come  on,  it  became  imper- 
ative to  go  into  winter  quarters,  and  we  wintered  on 
[  129  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

the  Cottonwood,  twelve  miles  northwest  of  Fort 
Laramie. 

In  October,  '77,  over  twelve  thousand  Ogallala 
Sioux  were  removed  from  their  old  agency  on  White 
River,  a  mile  east  of  Fort  Robinson,  to  Bijou  Hill, 
on  the  Missouri,  only  to  be  moved  back  a  year  later 
to  what  still  remains  their  present  agency,  between 
Wounded  Knee  and  White  Clay  Creeks. 

In  the  months  of  January  and  February,  accom- 
panied by  two  men,  I  made  a  scouting  trip  to  the 
north  and  east  down  the  Niobrara  to  Pine  Creek, 
crossing  north  to  White  River  and  thence  back  by 
the  head  of  White  River  to  my  winter  camp  on  the 
Cottonwood,  a  journey  of  sixty  days  without  meeting 
a  single  white  man! 

With  my  future  location  decided  by  this  trip,  so 
soon  as  the  cattle  could  be  gathered  in  the  spring,  I 
moved  one  hundred  miles  north  of  the  Platte  River, 
and  took  up  and  occupied  White  River  from  its  head 
down  to  Fort  Robinson,  twenty  miles,  and  also  twenty 
miles  of  the  Niobrara,  averaging  fourteen  miles  to  the 
south  of  the  White  River  range. 

This  territory  embraced  the  very  heart  of  what 
had  been  the  favourite  home  camping  ground  of  the 
main  band  of  Ogallala  Sioux  for  generations.  In- 
deed, the  head  of  White  River  was,  bar  none,  the  most 
[130] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

beautiful  country  I  have  ever  seen  in  the  West,  a  roll- 
ing hiU  country,  open  timbered  with  pines  like  a 
park ;  with  springs  of  clear,  cold  water  breaking  out 
in  almost  every  gulch ;  with  tall,  white  limestone  cliffs 
to  north  and  south  that  gave  the  valley  perfect  shel- 
ter against  winter  storms,  and  all  the  land  matted 
thick  with  juicy  buffalo  grass. 

The  home  ranch  I  located  on  Dead  Man's  Creek,  a 
small  tributary  of  the  White  River  five  miles  south  of 
Fort  Robinson. 

While  chosen  only  for  its  value  as  a  ranch  site, 
this  location  proved  the  most  fortunate  choice  I  could 
have  made.  The  Sioux  name  of  the  Creek  was 
Wi-nogi-waka-pala,  meaning  "  Ghost  Creek,"  or 
"  Dead  Man's  Creek,"  and  we  later  learned  that  the 
Sioux  had  such  a  superstitious  dread  of  it  that  no 
Indian  ever  ventured  near  Dead  Man's  Creek  at 
night.  This  superstition  came  from  the  tradition  of 
a  camp  of  Indians  on  the  Dead  Man  many  years  be- 
fore which  was  attacked  by  a  contagion  so  deadly 
that  not  enough  living  were  left  to  bury  the  dead. 
Thus  it  happened  that,  while  we  could  never  abate 
our  watchfulness,  no  night  raid  upon  this  ranch  or 
the  horse  herd  ranging  near  was  ever  made  by  the 
Sioux,  while  ranches  far  to  the  south  of  mine  suffered 
often  and  severely. 

[  131  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

Fort  Robinson  was  then  a  little  two-company  gar- 
rison, which  had  been  built  at  the  close  of  the  Sitting 
Bull  campaign  of  1876,  at  the  junction  of  Soldier 
Creek  and  White  River,  built  really  to  help  to  awe 
and  hold  in  check  the  restless  Ogallala  Sioux,  whose 
agency  then  lay  a  mile  down  the  river  from  the  Fort. 

But  this  story  deals  with  the  Sioux  only  incident- 

ally. 

The  people  whose  virtual  extermination  I  came  to 
witness  were  the  Northern  Cheyennes,  belonging  to 
Dull  Knife's  band,  captured  on  Chadron  Creek  by 
Capt.  J.  B.  Johnson,  of  the  Third  Cavalry,  in  Oc- 
tober, '78,  and  held  as  prisoners  in  barracks  at  Fort 
Robinson  until  Janup-ry,  1879. 

The  band  numbered  one  hundred  and  forty-nine 
people,  of  whom  forty  were  warriors.  Their  capture 
by  Johnson  was  the  closing  scene  of  the  most  remark- 
able campaign  in  the  history  of  Indian  warfare. 

The  Cheyennes  were  natives  of  these  same  plains 
and  mountains,  highlanders  whose  hereditary  domain 
embraced  the  magnificent  ranges  of  the  Big  Horn  and 
the  Black  Hills ;  here  through  generations  were  they 
born,  here  their  dead  were  buried.  Allied  more  or  less 
with  the  Sioux,  intermarried  with  them  to  some  ex- 
tent, here  they  dwelt  and  maintained  themselves 
against  all  comers  in  a  veritable  aboriginal's  para- 
[  132  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

disc,  the  plains  alive  with  buffalo  and  antelope,  the 
mountains  full  of  deer,  elk,  mountain-sheep  and  bear, 
the  streams  swarming  with  fish,  and  everywhere  a 
thick  carpet  of  juicy  buffalo  grass  that  kept  their 
ponies  fat  as  seals.  Numerically  weaker  than  the 
Sioux,  they  were  an  infinitely  bolder  and  more  war- 
like race. 

But  at  last.  In  1876,  came  the  fatal  day  that  sooner 
or  later  arrived  for  all  Indian  titles — that  which  the 
Pale  Face  most  covets  was  discovered  in  the  very 
heart  of  their  domain;  gold  was  found  in  the  Black 
Hills,  arid  miners  began  to  stream  in.  This  part  of 
the  story  was  well  told  by  General  Brisbane  (then 
commanding  Fort  Ellis)  in  an  interview  with  a  news- 
paper correspondent: 

**  That  the  Indians  do  not  make  war  unless  pressed, 
you,  as  a  resident  here  since  1870,  must  admit.  You 
remember  my  first  operation  here  after  my  arrival 
in  1876?  I  allude  to  the  rescue  of  the  garrison  at 
Fort  Pease,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Big  Horn.  Some 
forty  whites  had  left  Bozeman  and  located  in  the 
heart  of  Sitting  Bull's  country,  and  without  any 
authority  In  the  world  had  built  a  fort  there.  The 
Sioux  and  Cheyennes  attacked,  and  were  on  the 
point  of  capturing  It,  when  the  besieged  men  ap- 
[133] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

pealed  to  me  for  aid.  Sitting  Bull  had  one  thousand 
five  hundred  warriors,  and  we  had  only  four  hundred 
men,  but  we  hastened  to  relieve  the  settlement.  He 
could  have  beaten  us,  but,  doubtless  thinking  it  best 
to  permit  the  removal  of  the  cause  of  the  trouble,  he 
drew  off,  only  too  glad  to  see  the  departure  of  the 
intruders.  I  had  hardly  again  reached  Fort  Ellis, 
when  I  was  notified  of  the  approach  of  General  Gib- 
bon with  seven  companies  of  infantry  from  one  direc- 
tion, and  General  Terry,  and  Custer  with  his  regi- 
ment, from  another.  We  all  returned  to  Sitting  Bull's 
country — then  the  Big  Horn  and  Rosebud  fights  oc- 
curred." 

At  the  first  encroachment  on  their  reservation  the 
Indians  had  petitioned  the  Government  for  protec- 
tion. As  usual,  the  petition  was  "  read  and  referred." 
Meantime  their  country  was  being  invaded.  Small 
parties  of  venturesome  miners  were  coming  into  the 
Black  Hills  from  Fort  Pierre  on  the  east,  Chey- 
enne and  Sidney  on  the  south,  and  Bozeman  on  the 
west. 

For  a  time  the  Indians  waited  patiently  for  the 

Government  to  interfere  in  their  behalf.  Had  they 

considered  the  long,  shameful  story  of  the  treatment 

of  the  red  race  by  the  white,  they  probably  would 

[  134  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

not  have  waited  so  long.  Instead  of  help,  more  miners 
came. 

At  last,  losing  hope  of  any  aid,  they  went  the  way 
all  people  go  in  one  manner  or  another  directly  they 
find  themselves  being  despoiled — they  went  to  war. 

War  parties  attacked  the  trespassing  whites. 
Quickly  the  wires  brought  to  the  East  stories  of 
Indian  atrocities,  and  soon  two  military  columns  were 
set  in  motion  to  crush  those  whom  they  should  rather 
have  been  sent  to  protect. 

This  was  the  origin  of  the  '76  campaign,  in  which 
the  gallant  Custer  and  his  brave  Seventh  were  wiped 
out,  and  which  ended  in  the  defeat  of  Sitting  Bull  and 
the  capture  of  Crazy  Horse's  Sioux  and  Dull  Knife's 
Cheyennes. 

Then  we  had  a  treaty,  and  the  Sioux  and  Chey- 
ennes "  ceded  "  the  Black  Hills  to  the  Government. 
With  proper  prompt  action  in  the  beginning,  this 
"  cession  "  might  have  been  negotiated  with  honour  to 
the  Government  and  satisfaction  to  the  Indians,  and 
the  Seventh  spared  their  terrible  sacrifice. 

In  rude  old  feudal  days  when  they  took  a  man's 
land,  they  usually  hacked  off  his  head.  But  the  rude 
old  feudal  customs,  convenient  though  they  may  be, 
quite  shock  modern  sensibilities.  Thus  the  then-ruling 
humanitarians  of  the  Indian  Bureau  decided  that  Dull 
[  135  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

Knife's  Chejennes,  who  were  the  boldest  and  most 
independent  of  the  lot,  should  be  removed  six  hundred 
miles  south  to  the  Indian  Territory,  a  country  and 
climate  with  no  pleasing  prospect  for  them  unless  of 
an  early  and  certain  translation — ^by  disease  and 
death — to  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds  which  repre- 
sent the  future  paradise  of  the  red  man. 

So  away  they  were  marched  in  1877  to  Fort  Reno, 
a  grim  band  of  warriors,  squaws  and  papooses,  their 
robes,  parfleches  and  other  rude  equipment  trailing 
on  travois. 

Their  war  chief  was  Dull  Knife ;  two  senior  chiefs, 
Old  Crow  and  Wild  Hog ;  the  junior  war  chief,  Little 
Wolf. 

Dull  Knife  had  a  history  worth  telling,  but  suffice 
it  here  to  say  that  all  army  officers  who  encountered 
him  held  high  esteem  for  his  generalship  and  indomi- 
table courage. 

Unaccustomed  to  the  enervating  climate  of  the 
south,  they  rapidly  fell  its  victims.  Easy  prey  to  the 
fevers  there  prevalent,  it  was  not  long  before  there 
was  scarcely  a  lodge  free  from  the  shrill  death  chant 
of  mourners  and  the  dull  roar  of  the  medicine  tom- 
tom. 

Out  of  two  hundred  and  thirty-five  bucks  who  ar- 
rived at  Fort  Reno  in  August,  1877,  twenty-eight 
[136] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BlllTHRIGHT 

died  within  a  twelvemonth,  while  the  mortality  among 
the  women  and  children  was  greater  still. 

The  head  men  of  the  tribe  appealed  to  the  Govern- 
ment. They  pleaded  as  men  can  only  plead  for  life. 
They  showed  that  they  were  dying  like  sheep  on  their 
new  reservation.  They  begged  to  be  permitted  to 
return  to  their  old  home  in  the  highlands  of  the 
north.  They  promised  to  be  obedient  and  peaceful  if 
allowed  to  return. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  an  Indian  promise,  and  the  Gov- 
ernment had  gotten  in  the  bad  habit  of  discrediting 
Indian  promises,  notwithstanding  the  indisputable 
fact  of  history  that,  once  frankly  pledged,  the  Indian 
faith  has  rarely  been  broken. 

Therefore  their  prayer  was  denied,  and  they  were 
told  to  content  themselves  where  they  were. 

As  a  piece  of  humanity,  this  decision  was  like  telling 
a  well  man  to  sleep  with  a  leper ;  as  public  policy,  like 
courting  war;  as  justice,  like  robbing  a  man  of  his 
home,  and  then  compelling  him  to  dwell  roofless  in  an 
atmosphere  of  contagion. 

However,  it  was  the  decision,  a  decision  from 
which  the  Cheyennes  possessed  only  one  right  of  ap- 
peal— the  appeal  to  arms — and  they  took  it. 

This  was  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  Cheyenne  out- 
break of  '78. 

[137] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

It  was  a  campaign  begun  early  in  September  of 
1878,  far  south  on  the  banks  of  the  Canadian  River, 
in  the  (then)  Indian  Territory,  now  Oklahoma,  and 
only  finished  when,  late  in  October,  Little  Wolf,  with 
the  younger  and  stronger  members  of  Dull  Knife's 
band,  although  constantly  pursued  and  intercepted 
by  troops,  had  successfully  fought  his  way  through 
four  great  military  lines  of  interception — which  in- 
cluded all  the  troops  the  War  Department  was  able 
to  put  in  the  field  against  him — to  the  complete  es- 
cape and  safety  of  a  junction  with  Sitting  Bull's 
Uncapapa  Sioux  in  the  British  northwest  territory, 
one  thousand  miles  to  the  north;  and  when  Dull 
Knife  and  the  elders  of  the  tribe,  entirely  spent  of 
strength  and  ammunition,  were  captured  in  the  Nio- 
brara sand  hills  of  Northern  Nebraska,  six  hundred 
miles  from  their  starting-point — a  campaign  that  for 
generalship  and  strategy,  for  boldness  of  conception 
and  sheer,  desperate,  reckless  courage  of  execution, 
surpasses  in  every  detail  even  the  famous  outbreak  of 
the  Nez  Perces  under  Chief  Joseph,  or  of  the  Apaches 
under  Victoria;  a  campaign  Inspired  by  a  holy  pur- 
pose no  man  who  knows  the  love  of  fatherland  can 
gainsay,  if  ever  warfare  had  a  holy  purpose  in  this 
world. 

To  be  sure  they  left  a  trail  red  with  the  blood  of 
[138] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

many  an  innocent  victim,  gray  with  the  ashes  of  many 
a  plundered  ranch  and  farmhouse.  Still  they  were 
only  savages,  fighting  according  to  the  traditions  of 
their  race. 

Duix  Knife  Jumps  the   Reservation 

It  was  the  ninth  of  September,  1878. 

Night  had  fallen  over  the  Valley  of  the  Canadian, 
one  of  those  clear,  bright  nights  of  early  autumn  on 
the  plains  when  the  stars  seem  hovering  about  the 
tops  of  the  cottonwoods.  The  moon  was  nearly  full, 
for  the  savage,  much  of  whose  strategy  is  learned 
from  the  wild  beast,  chooses  the  night — and  always  a 
moonlight  night — for  his  forays.  No  Indian  ever 
sought  the  war-path  in  the  dark  of  the  moon. 

The  Cheyenne  camp  was  pitched  in  the  valley,  at 
some  distance  from  the  fort. 

The  tall  tepees,  gleaming  gray  in  the  moonlight, 
stood  in  clusters  in  a  narrow  belt  of  cottonwoods  that 
lined  the  stream. 

Usually  at  this  hour  an  Indian  village  was  bright 
with  the  flames  of  camp  fires  and  noisy  with  romping 
children,  above  whose  piping  voices  from  time  to  time 
rose  the  weird,  monotonous  chant  of  some  old  folk- 
lore song  of  the  race,  recounting  the  world-old  story 
of  dangers  doughtily  withstood  by  heroes  gone  long 
[139] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

before;  groups  of  warriors  lounged  about  the  camp 
fires,  the  elders  spinning  yarns  of  the  chase  and  the 
raid,  stories  of  hunting,  of  war,  and  of  love  that 
stirred  the  young  bucks  mightily. 

But  this  night,  while  there  was  an  unwonted  activ- 
ity in  the  camp,  there  was  no  noise. 

The  great  herd  of  ponies,  usually  grazing  out  on 
the  divide  where  the  juicy  buffalo  grass  grows  thick, 
had  been  quietly  brought  into  the  camp. 

Men,  women,  and  youths  were  rapidly  but  silently 
lariating  their  mounts  and  adjusting  their  rude 
bridles  and  saddles. 

This  finished,  they  attacked  the  tepees.  Tall,  grim, 
blanketed  figures  bent  quickly  to  the  work.  The  buf- 
falo robe  or  canvas  covering  of  the  tepees  was  soon 
stripped  off  the  poles,  rolled  and  packed  on  the 
ponies. 

The  tepee  poles  were  left  standing,  for  the  prepa- 
rations making  were  as  well  for  a  flight  as  a  fight. 
The  column  must  travel  light;  no  needless  impedi- 
menta could  be  taken,  and  there  would  be  no  time  to 
set  up  tepees  on  this  march. 

The  few  poor  stores  at  their  disposal  were  soon 
stowed  in  parfleches  and  tied  on  the  pack  animals. 
Then  the  column  was  ready  to  move. 

Papooses  were  quickly  slung  in  the  slack  of  the 
[140] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

blanket  on  the  mothers'  backs  and  the  mothers  mount- 
ed; the  children  were  tossed  up  astride  behind  their 
mothers ;  the  bucks  tightened  their  belts,  slung  their 
arms,  and  swung  swiftly  into  the  saddle ;  and  the  col- 
umn, in  loose,  irregular  order,  with  seldom  more  than 
two  or  three  riding  abreast,  moved  softly  out  of 
camp,  headed  northward  on  as  desperate  a  sortie  as 
forlorn  hope  ever  drove  men  to. 

Dawn  came  at  last.  A  sleepy  sentinel  on  post 
yawned,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  walked  to  the  edge  of  the 
bluff,  where  he  could  look  down  on  the  Cheyenne 
camp. 

But  presto!  the  camp  had  disappeared.  Only  the 
ghost  of  a  camp  remained,  for  where  had  stood  the 
gleaming  canvas  of  the  tepees  naught  appeared  but 
the  gaunt  pole  skeletons  of  these  primitive  habita- 
tions. 

The  sentry  quickly  called  the  sergeant  of  the 
guard ;  he,  the  officer  of  the  day ;  he,  the  commanding 
officer. 

The  "  assembly  "  was  promptly  sounded.  A  patrol 
was  ordered  out,  a  patrol  which  soon  reported  a  de- 
serted village  and  a  trail  leading  straight  away 
across  the  divide  toward  the  north!  The  story  was 
told  in  trooper's  brusque  phrase: 

"  Dull  Knife's  jumped  the  reservation." 
[141] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

No  time  was  lost.  Within  half  an  hour  two  troops 
of  cavalry  rode  out  of  Fort  Reno  on  the  trail. 

The  chase  was  on. 

And  what  a  hopeless  chase  none  but  an  old  trooper 
or  frontiersman  familiar  with  Indian  methods  and 
troopers'  limitations  can  realise. 

The  trooper  was  always  at  a  disadvantage.  He  had 
only  his  single  mount,  accustomed  to  high  grain  feed- 
ing and  stable  care,  that  quickly  went  footsore  and 
lost  condition  in  such  a  pursuit.  Once  afoot,  the 
trooper  could  not  forage  on  the  country  for  a  fresh 
mount. 

A  band  of  Indians,  on  the  other  hand,  always  car- 
ried with  them  a  herd  of  loose  ponies.  They  rode  at 
great  speed,  they  rode  on  and  yet  on  till  their  mounts 
fell  from  fatigue.  The  throats  of  the  fagged  beasts 
were  then  quickly  cut,  to  prevent  their  falling  into 
the  hands  of  pursuers,  fresh  mounts  caught,  and 
the  flight  resumed.  Their  own  supply  of  fresh  horses 
exhausted,  the  band  then  raided  ranches  and  farms 
for  others. 

By  these  means,  extraordinary  marches  were  made. 
At  the  time  of  the  last  outbreak  of  Geronimo  from 
the  San  Carlos  Reservation,  his  first  march  covered 
one  hundred  and  forty  miles  without  a  halt ! 

This  small  initial  pursuing  column  was  the  least 
[  142  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

difficulty  Dull  Knife  had  to  contend  with.  The  out- 
break had  instantly  been  telegraphed  by  Colonel  Miz- 
ner,  commanding  at  Fort  Reno,  through  the  usual 
official  channels,  to  the  War  Department.  Dull 
Knife's  skill  and  daring  as  a  leader  were  only  too  well 
known  to  the  Department.  Instantly  the  whole  avail- 
able force  of  the  United  States  Army  was  set  in  mo- 
tion to  effect  his  capture.  Within  a  few  days  no  less 
than  two  thousand  troops,  seasoned  veterans  trained 
in  the  great  Sioux-Cheyenne  War  of  1876,  had  taken 
the  field  against  Dull  Knife.  To  accomplish  this, 
three  departments  of  the  army  were  drawn  upon ;  and 
from  Cantonment  in  the  Big  Horn  Mountains  of 
Montana  to  Camp  Supply  in  the  Indian  Territory, 
from  Omaha  to  Salt  Lake,  grim  columns  were  moving 
to  crush  or  subdue  this  handful  of  hostiles. 

General  Pope,  commanding  the  Department  of  the 
Missouri,  directed  the  immediate  pursuit. 

September  12,  1878,  he  reported  to  General  Sheri- 
dan: 

"  The  following  dispositions  have  been  made  to  in- 
tercept the  Northern  Cheyennes :  One  hundred  mount- 
ed infantrymen  leave  by  special  train  to-morrow 
for  Fort  Wallace  to  head  off  the  Indians  if  they  cross 
the  railroad  east  or  west  of  that  post.  Two  companies 
[143] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

of  infantry  leave  Hays  this  evening  to  take  post  at 
two  noted  crossings  of  Indians  on  the  Kansas  Pacific 
between  Hays  and  Wallace.  One  infantry  company 
from  Dodge  is  posted  on  the  railroad  west  of  that 
point.  Two  cavalry  companies  from  Reno  are  close 
on  the  Indians,  and  will  be  joined  by  the  cavalry  com- 
pany from  Supply.  Colonel  Lewis  will  assume  com- 
mand of  them  as  soon  as  they  reach  the  vicinity  of 
Dodge.  The  troops  at  Fort  Lyon  are  ordered  to 
watch  the  country  east  and  west  of  that  post.  .  ,  . 
All  are  ordered  to  attack  the  Indians  wherever  found 
unless  they  surrender  at  once,  in  which  case  they  are 
to  be  dismounted  and  disarmed.  Whatever  precau- 
tions are  possible  should  be  taken  on  the  line  of  the 
Platte." 

The  same  day  witnessed  similar  activity  in  the  De- 
partment of  the  Platte.  Four  companies,  under  Cap- 
tains Burrowes,  Bowman,  Brisbin,  and  Trotter  of  the 
Fourth,  Ninth,  and  Fourteenth  Infantry,  were  or- 
dered to  rendezvous  at  Sidney,  Nebraska,  on  the  U.  P. 
R.  R.,  whence  scouts  were  to  be  kept  out  on  watch 
for  the  hostiles,  and  a  special  train  was  kept  in  con- 
stant readiness  to  carry  the  troops  east  or  west. 

September  14th  General  Crook  hurried  west- 
ward over  the  Union  Pacific  to  direct  operations,  and 
[144] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

Major  T.  T.  Thornburg  took  command  of  the  troops 
at  Sidney. 

Meantime,  the  Cheyennes  were  pushing  forward 
night  and  day,  steaHng  horses,  ravaging  the  country, 
and  killing  all  who  came  in  their  path.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  presence  of  their  women  and  children,  they 
were  making  fifty  to  seventy  miles  a  day,  and  the  pur- 
suers, struggle  as  they  might,  seemed  to  be  on  a 
hopeless  stern  chase. 

It  was  believed  at  the  time  in  the  Department  of 
the  Platte  that  Dull  Knife  had  been  In  communication 
with  Sitting  Bull,  and  that  a  consolidation  of  forces 
had  been  planned.  This  sufficiently  points  the  high 
estimate  placed  by  experienced  army  officers  of  the 
day  upon  the  daring  and  generalship  of  Dull  Knife ; 
for  at  the  time  Sitting  Bull  and  his  band  of  hostiles 
were  in  the  mountains  between  Calgary  and  McLeod, 
in  the  British  Northwest  Territory,  one  thousand 
miles  from  Fort  Reno ! 

The  hostiles  were  reported  checked  by  the  troops 
at  a  point  twenty  miles  from  Fort  Wallace,  Kansas, 
on  the  16th  of  September.  This,  however,  proved  a 
mistake,  for  on  the  18th  a  detachment  of  Dull  Knife's 
band  fought  a  desperate  engagement  with  two  com- 
panies of  the  Fourth  Cavalry,  and  fifteen  cowboys 
near  Dodge  City.  In  this  fight  several  Indians  were 
[145] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

captured,  and  many  were  wounded  on  both  sides.  But 
the  Cheyennes  succeeded  in  beating  oif  the  troops  and 
resumed  their  flight  to  the  northwest. 

Of  their  mastery  in  this  engagement  they  left  be- 
hind them  terrible  evidence  in  the  smoking  ruins  of 
several  houses  no  more  than  three  miles  from  Dodge 
City. 

Notwithstanding  the  cordon  of  troops  stretched 
along  the  Kansas  Pacific  Railway  from  Fort  Wallace 
eastward,  on  the  20th  it  was  reported  that  the  main 
band  of  the  Cheyennes  had  skilfully  eluded  the 
troops,  had  crossed  the  railway,  and  were  rapidly 
advancing  against  the  second  line  of  military  inter- 
ception on  the  Union  Pacific  Railway,  north  of  the 
South  Platte  River. 

On  the  second  line  of  interception.  General  Crook 
had  concentrated  every  available  man  of  his  depart- 
ment! Here  the  Cheyennes  were  certainly  to  be 
stopped,  but,  knowing  well  and  highly  valuing  Dull 
Knife's  generalship  and  resolution,  the  veteran  Crook 
took  no  chances,  and  ordered  General  Bradley,  at 
Fort  Robinson,  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  miles 
north  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railway,  to  hold  his 
command  in  readiness  for  an  emergency  order,  and 
directed  General  Wesley  P.  Merritt,  of  the  Fifth 
Cavalry,  to  move  his  command  down  the  flanks  of  the 
[146] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

Big  Horn  Mountains  to  the  vicinity  of  Fort  McKin- 
ney,  Wyoming,  one  hundred  miles  to  the  northwest 
of  Robinson! 

A  correspondent  on  the  ground  at  the  time  wrote 
to  the  Herald: 

"  These  Cheyennes  are  considered  the  finest  horse- 
men in  America;  they  ride  their  animals  as  if  glued 
to  them,  and  load  and  fire  with  the  precision  of  foot 
soldiers.  Besides  this  they  have  the  bravery  which 
comes  from  desperation  and  continued  ill-treatment. 
It  is  more  than  suspected  things  were  rotten  at  their 
agency,  and  they  preferred  to  fight  rather  than 
starve." 

A  band  of  two  hundred  Northern  Cheyennes  under 
Little  Chief  was  brought  into  Sidney,  September 
16th,  by  the  Seventh  Cavalry.  They  were  being  es- 
corted, virtually  as  prisoners,  from  their  homes  in  the 
North  to  the  Cheyenne  Reservation  at  Fort  Reno. 
September  22d  General  Crook  held  a  council  with 
them.  Little  Chief  said : 

"We  are  sorry  to  hear  of  the  outbreak  of  our 

people.  Many  of  our  relatives  must  be  kiUed.  We  do 

not  propose  to  join  them,  but  we  hear  we  are  going 

to  a  poor  country  where  the  Indian  dies.  We  are 

[147] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

leaving  our  own  hunting  grounds  in  the  Black  Hills 
where  we  were  born,  where  our  fathers  are  buried, 
and  we  are  sad." 

From  this  speech  it  would  seem  that  Little  Chief's 
character  justified  his  name;  he  had  none  of  Dull 
Knife's  greatness  of  soul  and  iron  courage. 

September  28th  Dull  Knife  fought  his  fifth  en- 
gagement with  the  troops  since  leaving  Reno — five 
fights  in  a  fortnight!  The  battle  occurred  in  the 
Canon  of  Famished  Woman's  Fork,  near  Fort  Wal- 
lace. 

Lieutenant-Colonel  W.  H.  Lewis,  Nineteenth  In- 
fantry, commanded  the  troops. 

The  battle  lasted  two  hours. 

The  fighting  was  desperate. 

When  leading  a  line  of  skirmishers  within  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  yards  of  the  enemy,  Colonel  Lewis's 
horse  was  shot  under  him.  Disengaging  himself  from 
his  fallen  mount,  he  seized  a  carbine  and  advanced 
with  his  line.  Fifty  yards  farther  on  a  ball  cut  the 
femoral  artery  in  his  left  leg,  and  he  quickly  bled  to 
death. 

Lewis  was  an  experienced  Indian  fighter  of  a  noble 
record  in  the  desperate  plains  service  of  those  days, 
and  greatly  mourned  by  all  who  knew  him. 

At  nightfall  the  Indians  withdrew,  leaving  one 
[148] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

dead  warrior  and  seventeen  dead  ponies  on  the  field. 
Besides  the  loss  of  Colonel  Lewis,  three  troopers  were 
wounded. 

Still  the  indomitable  band  held  their  northward 
course,  fighting  for  freedom  and  fatherland. 

October  2d  two  separate  engagements  were  fought 
by  detached  bands  of  the  Chejennes.  In  one  engage- 
ment Lieutenant  Broderick,  of  the  Twenty-third 
Infantry,  was  wounded,  and  Corporal  Stewart,  of 
Company  I,  and  five  soldiers  were  killed;  in  the 
other,  a  hand-to-hand  fight  between  Indians  and 
ranchmen,  eighteen  ranchmen  were  killed  and  five 
wounded.  The  bodies  of  the  dead  were  brought  into 
Buffalo  station.  As  usual,  the  Indians  carried  off 
their  dead  and  wounded,  and  their  losses  were  un- 
known. Most  of  the  dead  ranchmen  were  settlers  on 
the  Beaver,  Sappa,  and  Frenchman  Creeks. 

Scouts  from  Thornburg's  command  on  October 
3d  sighted  a  band  of  Cheyennes  on  the  Frenchman, 
and  estimated  their  number  at  two  hundred  and  fifty, 
sixty  armed  bucks. 

In  the  three  days  previous  the  Cheyennes  had 
stolen  two  hundred  and  fifty  horses  and  left  sixty 
dead  or  worn  out  behind  them  on  the  trail. 

At  high  noon  of  October  4th  the  splendid  old 
general,  Dull  Knife,  having  assembled  his  scattered 
[149] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

columns  into  one  body,  boldly  forded  the  South  Platte 
River,  and  led  his  main  command  north  across  the 
Union  Pacific  Railway,  a  half  mile  east  of  the  town 
of  Ogallala,  Neb.  As  quickly  as  the  Indians  were 
sighted,  the  news  was  wired  to  Sidney,  and  by  4  p.m. 
Thornburg  had  arrived  with  his  command  at  Ogal- 
lala, and  immediately  struck  out  on  Dull  Knife's 
trail.  Shortly  thereafter  he  was  followed  by  the  com- 
mand of  Captain  Mauck,  who  had  been  pursuing  the 
Indians  constantly  since  Lewis's  death  in  Famished 
Woman's  Canon. 

Astounded  and  dismayed  by  Dull  Knife's  march- 
ing and  desperate  fighting,  General  Crook  began  to 
feel  uncertain  whenever  and  wherever  the  old  chief 
could  be  brought  to  a  final  stand. 

This  same  day,  therefore,  he  ordered  Major  Carl- 
ton's five  troops  of  the  Third  Cavalry  to  leave  Fort 
Robinson,  scout  the  Niobrara  Sand  Hills,  and  try  to 
intercept  and  hold  the  Cheyennes  until  Thornburg's 
column  could  overtake  and  strike  their  rear,  and  also 
ordered  into  the  field  ten  troops  of  the  Seventh  Cav- 
alry, then  in  cantonment  at  Bear  Butte  (now  Fort 
Mead),  Dakota,  on  the  northeast  edge  of  the  Black 
Hills,  nearly  two  hundred  miles  to  the  north  of  Carl- 
ton^ to  form  the  fourth  line  of  military  harrier 
agamst  Dull  Knife* s  advance! 
[1501 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

Two  days  later  (October  6th),  despatches  came  in 
from  Thornburg  reporting  his  column  sixty  miles 
north  of  Ogallala  in  the  midst  of  terrible  sand  hills, 
wherein,  after  leaving  the  North  Platte,  they  had 
travelled  thirty  miles  without  water.  No  Indians 
had  been  seen,  and  the  trails  indicated  that  they  were 
scattered  in  all  directions,  singly  and  in  pairs,  scat- 
tered like  a  flock  of  quail,  for  concealment  and  rest. 

Thus  further  immediate  pursuit  became  hopeless. 
The  Nebraska  Sand  Hills  were  then  and  are  still  a 
great,  trackless  waste,  in  extent  ninety  miles  north 
and  south  by  two  hundred  miles  east  and  west,  bound- 
ed on  the  south  by  the  Platte  River,  and  on  the  north 
by  the  Niobrara — a  veritable  Sahara  of  loose,  drift- 
ing sands  in  which  horse  or  man  sinks  ankle-deep  at 
every  step ;  an  arid,  desert  region  affording  no  water 
except  in  a  few  isolated  lakes ;  a  region  impossible  to 
know  because  the  landmark  of  one  day  is  removed  by 
the  winds  of  the  next;  a  weird,  mysterious,  awful 
country,  in  which,  looking  south,  one  sees  naught  but 
an  endless  sea  of  yellow,  rolling  sand  waves,  while 
turning  and  looking  to  the  north,  the  eye  takes  in 
a  limitless  expanse  of  waving  red-top  grass,  higher 
than  one's  stirrups.  How  pursue  hostiles  in  such  a 
country?  It  was  clearly  impossible. 

In  this  dilemma  Major  Carlton,  of  the  Third  Cav- 
[151] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

airy,  who  had  reached  Dog  Lake,  south  of  Niobrara, 
was  directed  to  march  his  column  back  north  and 
patrol  the  divide  between  the  Niobrara  and  White 
River,  in  an  attempt  to  prevent  a  junction  of  the 
Cheyennes  with  Red  Cloud's  Ogallala  Sioux,  then  on 
their  agency  on  White  Clay  Creek. 

Little  Wolf's  Escape  and  Dull  Knife's 
Capture 

Late  in  September  I  had  ridden  into  Cheyenne 
from  the  ranch  to  buy  and  bring  out  the  winter  sup- 
plies for  my  outfit,  and  there  first  learned  of  the  Chey- 
enne outbreak.  Naturally  more  or  less  anxiety  was  felt 
by  men  having  ranches  north  of  the  Platte,  but  with 
the  great  number  of  troops  in  the  field,  news  was  ex- 
pected from  day  to  day  that  the  Cheyennes  had  been 
rounded  up  and  captured.  When,  however,  on  the 
afternoon  of  October  5th,  news  arrived  that  Dull 
Knife's  main  war  party  had  crossed  the  Union  Pacific 
at  Ogallala,  it  became  plain  that  temporising  must 
cease  and  the  time  for  action  had  come;  so,  leaving 
instructions  that  no  supplies  should  be  forwarded 
until  after  peace  was  restored  and  the  safety  of  the 
trails  assured,  I  struck  out  northward  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  5th,  alone. 

My  mount  for  the  journey,  fortunately,  was  the 
[152] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

best  cow  pony  I  ever  owned  or  ever  saw;  a  square- 
built,  short-backed,  deep-barrelled,  dark  red  bay,  with 
great,  blazing  eyes,  alert  and  watchful  as  any  of  his 
long  line  of  wild  mustang  ancestors;  a  horse  whose 
favourite  gait  was  a  low,  swift,  daisy-clipping  lope, 
easy  as  a  rocking-chair  to  the  rider,  and  no  more 
tiring  to  the  beast  than  a  trot  to  an  average  pony — 
good  old  «ND"! 

Early  in  the  afternoon  ND  and  I  made  the  Dater 
Ranch  on  Bear  Creek,  fifty  miles  north  from  Chey- 
enne, the  last  cattle  ranch  between  Cheyenne  and  my 
place. 

Next  morning,  starting  at  dawn,  before  sunrise, 
having  no  trails,  and  striking  straight  across  country 
through  Goshen's  Hole,  we  swam  the  Platte,  and  by 
noon  had  reached  the  ranch  of  Nick  Janisse,  lying 
on  the  north  bank  of  the  Platte,  twenty-eight  miles 
east  of  Fort  Laramie. 

Janisse  was  an  old  French  voyageur  squaw  man, 
who  had  lived  and  traded  thirty  years  among  the 
Sioux,  and  who  had  then  been  for  some  years  settled 
in  this  isolated  valley,  within  a  stout-walled  sod 
stockade. 

I  had  expected  to  spend  the  night  with  Janisse, 
but  shortly  after  my  arrival  his  son-in-law,  a  half- 
breed  named  Louis  Changro,  rode  in  from  the  east 
[153] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

with  the  news  that  he  had  seen  a  party  of  eighteen 
Cheyenne  bucks  about  fifteen  miles  east  of  the  ranch, 
heading  northwest  directly  into  the  hill  country  be- 
tween Sheep  Creek  and  the  head  of  Snake  Creek, 
which  I  had  to  cross  to  get  home — this  evidently  a 
small  scouting  party  sent  out  ahead  by  DuU  Knife. 

Of  course  it  was  madness  to  expect  to  cross  in  day- 
light the  seventy-six  intervening  miles  between  Jan- 
isse's  ranch  and  mine,  with  Cheyenne  scouts  out, 
although  it  was  probable  that  they  were  prowling 
ahead  more  in  the  hope  of  rounding  up  fresh  ranch 
horses  than  anything  else. 

I  therefore  decided  the  ride  home  must  be  made 
that  night. 

Although  the  task  was  a  heavy  one  for  a  horse  that 
had  already  done  his  forty-five  miles  in  the  forenoon, 
I  felt  old  ND  could  make  it. 

Just  at  twilight  a  tremendous  thunderstorm  broke, 
very  conveniently,  for  the  moon  was  not  due  to  rise 
until  after  ten  o'clock. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dark  we  struck  out  on  an  old 
United  States  Government  waggon  trail  long  disused, 
which  I  would  never  have  been  able  to  follow  but  for 
the  constant  flashes  of  lightning.  Luckily  the  storm 
held  until  time  for  the  moon  to  rise,  and  by  that  time 
we  were  getting  up  out  of  the  valley  of  Sheep  Creek 
[154] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

upon  the  drier  uplands,  where  I  could  let  out  ND 
into  the  free,  easy  stride  he  loved. 

We  had  only  one  alarm  throughout  the  night. 
Toward  midnight,  relying  more  on  ND's  alert  watch- 
fulness than  my  own,  tired  and  dozing  comfortably  in 
the  saddle  (a  knack  all  cowboys  know  and  practise 
when  travelling  a  trail),  suddenly  old  ND  made  a 
bound  to  one  side  that  nearly  unseated  me. 

Of  course  I  could  fancy  nothing  but  Cheyennes, 
but,  jerking  my  pistol  and  looking  quickly  round 
about  in  the  dim  moonlight,  could  see  nothing. 

Still  old  ND  shied  away  as  if  in  deadly  fear  of 
something  behind  him  on  the  ground,  and,  looking 
closely  back,  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  skunk  following 
us,  literally  charging  after  us  as  if  mad — and  mad  I 
have  no  doubt  he  was,  as  often  have  I  heard  of  men 
being  bitten,  while  sleeping  on  the  plains  at  night, 
by  these  little  animals,  and  later  dying  with  all  symp- 
toms of  hydrophobia.  Hesitating  to  take  the  chance 
of  stirring  up  some  marauding  neighbour  by  shoot- 
ing my  little  pursuer,  I  gave  ND  his  head  and  we 
soon  left  him  behind. 

Few  greater  performances  by  horseflesh  than  old 

ND  achieved  that  night  are  recorded,  for  when,  a 

little  after  dawn  the  next  morning,  we  reached  the 

Deadman  home  ranch,  old  ND  had  completed  one 

[155] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

hundred  and  twenty-one  miles  between  sun  and  sun, 
and  had  done  it  without  quirt  or  spur. 

With  the  garrison  only  five  miles  away  and  a  mili- 
tary wire  to  the  railroad,  I  found  the  boys  already 
had  news  of  the  approaching  enemy,  and  learned  that 
Johnson's  and  Thompson's  troops  of  the  Third  Cav- 
alry were  patrolling  the  heart  of  my  range  from 
Robinson  to  the  head  of  White  River,  and  were 
scouting  daily  for  the  approaching  Cheyennes. 

Two  days  after  my  arrival,  October  8th,  two  of 
my  cowboys  reported  to  the  garrison  having  seen 
Indians  on  Crow  Butte,  two  miles  east  of  our  ranch, 
signalling  to  the  southeast  with  looking-glasses,  and 
dense  clouds  of  smoke  were  seen  to  the  north  in  the 
direction  of  Hat  Creek,  the  smoke  signalling  prob- 
ably the  work  of  the  little  scouting  party  Changro 
had  seen  crossing  the  Platte  on  the  5th. 

Late  in  the  night  of  the  13th,  a  little  band  of 
hostiles  raided  Clay  Deer's  store  at  the  old  Red  Cloud 
Agency,  a  mile  east  of  Fort  Robinson,  and  success- 
fully got  away  with  all  of  his  horses,  escaping  safely 
south  to  Crow  Butte;  and  the  Sioux  scouts  told  us 
all  that  saved  our  horses  on  Deadman  was  the  In- 
dians' superstitious  dread  of  venturing  into  the  valley 
of  Wi-nogi-waka-pala  at  night. 

The  next  day  patrols  of  troopers  reported  to  Rob- 
[156] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

inson  that  the  main  band  of  hostiles  was  encamped 
on  the  summit  of  Crow  Butte,  the  most  natural  point 
of  defence  for  a  desperate  final  stand  in  all  the  coun- 
try for  one  hundred  miles  round  about — a  high, 
isolated  butte,  in  ancient  times  an  outer  buttress  of 
the  tall  range  of  hills  rising  above  the  White  River 
Valley  to  the  south,  worn  by  erosion  until  it  stood 
a  detached  peak,  precipitous  on  all  sides  and  acces- 
sible even  to  footmen  only  at  one  point. 

Four  troops  of  cavalry  were  promptly  sent  to  sur- 
round Crow  Butte,  arriving  near  nightfall  at  its 
lower  slopes. 

The  position  was  one  impossible  of  direct  assault, 
and  therefore  pickets  were  set  at  short  intervals  sur- 
rounding the  butte.  Then  the  commanding  officer  laid 
himself  comfortably  down  to  rest,  with  the  happy 
certainty  it  had  fallen  to  his  lot  to  be  the  lucky  one 
to  succeed  in  entrapping  Dull  Knife  and  his  redoubt- 
able band. 

But  the  Indian  hosts  were  by  no  means  yet  ready 
to  become  hostages,  and  thus  it  fell  out  that  when 
morning  came  it  was  found  the  band  had  flown — ^had 
slipped  quietly  through  the  picket  lines  at  night  and 
were  far  away  to  the  north. 

Later  it  was  learned  that  this  band  was  led  by  the 
junior  war  chief.  Little  Wolf,  and  comprised  some- 
[157] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

thing  over  two  hundred  of  the  younger  and  stronger 
members  of  the  band  who  were  still  able  to  travel  and 
to  fight. 

Before  scattering  in  the  sand  hills  a  council  had 
been  held,  for  the  situation  of  the  Cheyennes  had  be- 
come utterly  desperate.  Here  they  were  beyond  the 
settlements,  with  no  more  ranches  to  raid  for  horses, 
food,  or  ammunition.  All  were  worn  and  exhausted  by 
the  march,  until  it  was  apparent  that  the  elders  of 
the  band  would  be  powerless  to  fight  their  way 
through  to  Canada,  unless  through  some  diversion. 
It  was,  therefore,  decided  that  Little  Wolf  should 
lead  the  stronger  on  a  last  desperate  dash  for  the 
liberty  they  hoped  to  find  somewhere  in  the  north, 
while  the  elders  should  rest  themselves  in  the  hope 
the  main  pursuit  might  be  led  off  by  Little  Wolf, 
leaving  the  elders  able  to  slip  through  later  unob- 
served. 

Successfully  eluding  the  Bear  Butte  column  and 
still  another  barrier  of  troops  situated  along  the 
Yellowstone,  Little  Wolf  led  his  band  safely  through, 
without  the  loss  of  another  man,  to  a  junction  with 
Sitting  Bull,  across  the  Canadian  border. 

This  march  is  not  excelled  in  the  annals  of  war- 
fare. It  covered  a  distance  of  more  than  one  thousand 
miles  in  less  than  fifty  days,  with  a  column  encum- 
[158] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

bered  with  women  and  children,  every  step  of  the 
trail  contested  by  all  the  troops  of  the  United  States 
Army  that  could  be  concentrated  to  oppose  them;  a 
march  that  struck  and  parted  like  ropes  of  sand  the 
five  great  military  barriers  interposed  across  their 
path:  the  first  across  the  Kansas-Pacific  Railway, 
commanded  by  General  Pope;  the  second  along  the 
Union  Pacific  Railroad  in  Nebraska,  commanded  by 
General  Crook;  the  third  along  the  Niobrara,  com- 
manded by  General  Bradley;  the  fourth  the  Bear 
Butte  (Seventh  Cavalry)  column,  stretched  east  from 
the  Black  Hills ;  the  fifth  along  the  Yellowstone,  com- 
manded by  General  Gibbon. 

In  the  early  evening  of  the  14th,  we  of  the  Dead- 
man  Ranch  were  anything  but  easy  in  our  minds  or 
certain  how  long  we  might  continue  to  wear  our  hair. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Tobacco  Jake,  one  of  my 
cowboys,  had  brought  the  news  that  the  main  band 
of  the  Cheyennes  lay  on  Crow  Butte,  two  miles  to  the 
east  of  us. 

Immediately  we  circled  and  rounded  up  all  our 
horses  and  put  them  under  guard  within  our  strong- 
est stockaded  corral.  The  Indians  were  so  desperate 
for  fresh  mounts  we  felt  certain  of  an  attack — certain 
that  even  their  dread  of  the  haunting  spirits  with 
which  their  savage  superstition  had  peopled  the  valley 
[159] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

of  Wi-nogi-waka-pala  would  not  prevent  them  from 
making  a  fight  to  take  our  fat  ponies. 

It  was  therefore  a  relief  when  one  of  the  guards 
entered  my  room  about  10  p.m.  and  reported  a  body 
of  men  coming  up  the  valley,  who,  in  the  moonlight, 
appeared  to  him  to  be  marching  in  such  regular 
order  he  felt  sure  they  were  soldiers. 

This  proved  to  be  true,  and  presently  arrived  be- 
fore the  ranch  a  sergeant  and  ten  men  of  Troop  B, 
with  two  Sioux  scouts.  Woman's  Dress  and  Red 
Shirt,  the  sergeant  bringing  me  a  note  from  dear  old 
Jack  Johnson,  saying  that,  while  he  felt  we  were 
quite  able  to  take  care  of  ourselves,  it  seemed  to  him 
expedient  to  give  us  reinforcements  to  help  defend 
our  horses,  the  lifting  of  which  by  the  Cheyennes 
would  add  enormously  to  the  difficulty  of  subduing 
the  band. 

From  this  most  welcome  increase  to  our  little 
force,  I  doubled  the  guards  around  ranch  and  cor- 
rals, and  we  retired  in  perfect  ease  of  mind,  for  the 
ranch  was  so  placed  as  to  command  an  open  plain 
on  all  sides  for  three  or  four  hundred  yards,  with- 
out cover  for  an  attacking  party,  and  so  we  were 
warned  against  a  hostile  approach;  we  felt  entirely 
secure  behind  our  loopholed  log  walls. 

This  night  and  the  next  day  passed  without  in- 
[160] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

cident,  and  we  later  learned  that  Little  Wolf  had  been 
so  closely  invested  by  troops  he  could  not  venture 
upon  a  foray. 

The  next  week  was  indeed  an  anxious  one,  for  it 
was  known  that  approximately  a  third  of  the  Chey- 
ennes  still  remained  grouped  or  scattered  in  the 
sand  hills  a  few  miles  to  the  southeast  of  us. 

White  River  was  lined  with  patrols  of  troopers, 
from  the  head  down  to  Chadron  Creek,  watching  for 
Dull  Knife's  advance.  He  could  not  go  south,  for 
Thornburg  lay  behind  him;  he  could  not  go  east  or 
west,  for  lack  of  water — he  must  come  north. 

During  this  week  Dull  Knife  succeeded  in  getting 
runners  through  with  messages  to  Red  Cloud,  of 
whom,  in  Dull  Knife's  name,  they  besought  aid. 

They  pleaded  the  blood  ties  which  existed  between 
many  of  their  families.  They  pleaded  the  ancient  alli- 
ance of  the  two  tribes  in  many  a  bloody  fray  with 
their  common  enemies,  the  Crows,  the  Pawnees,  and 
the  whites.  But  wise  old  Red  Cloud  was  even  a  greater 
statesman  than  warrior,  and  had  realised  long  years 
before  the  utter  hopelessness  of  resisting  the  whites. 
Indeed,  had  his  counsels  prevailed  against  those  of 
Sitting  Bull,  the  campaign  of  '76  had  never  hap- 
pened. Thus,  Dull  Knife's  messengers  returned  with 
nothing  better  than  words  of  sympathy  and  advice 
[161] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

to  Dull  Knife  to  surrender,  and  submit  himself  to  the 
Great  Father's  will. 

After  waiting  a  week  without  any  sign  of  move- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  hostiles,  Colonel  Carlton  sent 
out  from  Fort  Robinson,  on  October  21st,  troops 
commanded  by  Capt.  Jack  Johnson,  and  consisting 
of  Johnson's  Troop  B  and  Lieut.  J.  C.  Thompson's 
Troop  D,  Third  Cavalry,  accompanied  by  twenty- 
two  Sioux  scouts  under  Chiefs  American  Horse  (Red 
Cloud's  son-in-law  and  now  head  chief  of  the  Ogallala 
Sioux)  and  Rocking  Bear.  Their  orders  were  to  scout 
the  sand  hills  for  the  Cheyennes  and  harry  or  cap- 
ture them. 

Two  days  later,  when  well  into  the  sand  hills  and 
near  the  sink  of  Snake  Creek,  Johnson  located  a  band 
of  sixty  hostiles,  including  the  Chiefs  Dull  Knife,  Old 
Crow,  and  Wild  Hog. 

In  rags,  nearly  out  of  ammunition,  famished  and 
worn,  with  scarcely  a  horse  left  that  could  raise  a 
trot,  no  longer  able  to  fight  or  fly,  suffering  from 
cold,  and  disheartened  by  Red  Cloud's  refusal  to  re- 
ceive and  shelter  them,  the  splendid  old  war  chief  and 
his  men  were  forced  to  bow  to  the  inevitable  and  sur- 
render. 

Later  in  the  day  Johnson  succeeded  in  rounding  up 
the  last  of  Dull  Knife's  scattered  command  and  head- 
[162] 


A   FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

ed  north  for  White  River  with  his  prisoners,  one 
hundred  and  forty-nine  Cheyennes  and  one  hundred 
and  thirty-one  captured  ponies. 

The  evening  of  the  24th  Johnson  camped  at  Louis 
3'enks's  ranch  on  Chadron  Creek,  near  the  present 
town  of*  Chadron,  Neb. 

A  heavy  snow-storm  had  set  in  early  in  the  after- 
noon, and  the  night  was  so  bitter  and  the  Indians  so 
weakened  by  their  campaign  that  Johnson  felt  safe 
to  leave  them  free  to  take  the  best  shelter  they  could 
find  in  the  brush  along  the  deep  valley  of  Chadron 
Creek. 

This  leniency  he  was  not  long  in  regretting. 

Dull  Knife  and  his  band  had  been  feeding  liberally 
for  two  days  on  troopers'  rations,  and  had  so  far 
recovered  strength  of  body  and  heart  that  when 
morning  came  on  the  25th,  the  sentries  were  greeted 
with  a  feeble  volley  from  rifle-pits  in  the  brush,  dug 
by  Dull  Knife  in  the  frozen  ground  during  the  night ! 

And  here  in  these  pits  indomitable  old  Dull  Knife 
fought  stubbornly  for  two  days  more — fought  and 
held  the  troops  at  bay  until  Lieutenant  Chase 
brought  up  a  field-gun  from  Fort  Robinson  and 
shelled  them  to  a  final  surrender ! 

Thus  ended  the  first  episode  of  Dull  Knife's  mag- 
nificent fight  for  liberty  and  fatherland,  and  yet  had 
[163] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

he  had  food,  ammunition,  and  mounts,  the  chances 
are  a  hundred  to  one  that  his  heroic  purpose  would 
have  been  accompHshed,  and  the  entire  band  that 
left  Reno,  barring  those  killed  along  the  trail,  would 
have  escaped  in  safety  to  freedom  in  the  then  wilds 
of  the  Northwest  Territory. 

And  that,  even  in  this  apparently  final  surrender 
to  hopeless  odds.  Dull  Knife  was  still  not  without 
hope  of  further  resistance,  was  proved  by  the  fact 
that  when  he  came  out  of  his  trenches  only  a  few 
comparatively  old  and  worthless  arms  were  sur- 
rendered, while  it  later  became  known  that  twenty- 
two  good  rifles  had  been  taken  apart  and  were  swung, 
concealed,  beneath  the  clothing  of  the  squaws ! 

After  taking  a  day's  rest,  Johnson  marched  his 
command  into  Fort  Robinson,  arriving  in  the  even- 
ing in  a  heavy  snow-storm,  where  the  Cheyennes  were 
imprisoned  in  one  of  the  barracks  and  their  meagre 
equipment  dumped  in  with  them,  without  further 
search  for  arms  or  ammunition.  Later  it  was  learned 
that  that  night  the  Indians  quietly  loosened  some  of 
the  flooring  of  the  barrack  and  hid  their  arms  and 
ammunition  beneath  it,  so  that  when  a  more  careful 
search  of  their  belongings  and  persons  was  made  two 
days  later,  they  were  found  to  be  absolutely  without 
weapons  of  any  description. 
[  164  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

The  Outbreak  at  Fort  Robinson 

Fort  Robinson  was  a  good  type  of  the  smaller 
frontier  posts  of  the  '70s.  It  stood  on  a  narrow  bench 
to  the  north  of  and  slightly  elevated  above  the  valley 
of  Soldier  Creek. 

Facing  the  parade-ground,  on  the  north  were 
eight  sets  of  officers'  quarters;  on  the  east,  a  long 
company  barrack;  at  the  southeast  angle,  another 
barrack;  beyond  this,  to  the  west,  the  guard-house, 
then  the  adjutant's  office,  then  the  quartermaster's 
and  the  commissary  warehouses ;  back  and  to  the 
south  of  these,  the  company  stables  and  corrals ;  on 
the  west,  the  hospital;  at  the  northwest  angle,  Major 
Paddock's  sutler's  store. 

A  half  mile  down  the  valley  of  White  River  stood 
the  old  ruined  cantonment  of  Camp  Canby. 

Dull  Knife  and  his  people  were  confined  in  the  log 
barrack  at  the  southeast  angle  of  the  parade-ground. 
No  doors  were  locked  or  windows  barred.  A  small 
guard  patrolled  the  barrack-prison  night  and  day. 

What  to  do  with  these  indomitable  people  puzzled 
the  Indian  Bureau  and  the  army. 

The  States  of  Kansas  and  Nebraska  were  clamour- 
ing for  their  temporary  custody  for  the  purpose  of 
the  identification,  prosecution,  and  punishment  of  in- 
[165] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

dividual  members  for  killings  committed  during  their 
march  north  in  October. 

The  Sioux,  with  whom  they  were  closely  federated 
and  allied,  wanted  them  released  and  settled  in  the 
Sioux  Reservation;  and  Sioux  wishes  could  not  be 
idly  disregarded,  for  the  best  military  authorities 
then  agreed  it  would  need  discreet  handling  to  pre- 
vent the  Sioux  from  taking  the  war-path  again  so 
soon  as  green  grass  rose  in  the  spring. 

The  question  of  any  particular  justice  in  the  claim 
of  the  Cheyennes  that  the  agreements  of  the  Govern- 
ment (made  upon  their  surrender  in  1876)  had  not 
been  kept,  and  that  their  return  to  the  Indian  Ter- 
ritory meant  speedy  death  from  fevers,  received  no 
serious  consideration. 

In  his  reports  to  the  General  of  the  Army  for  1878, 
Gen.  P.  H.  Sheridan  made  the  following  noble  plea : 

"  There  has  been  an  insufficiency  of  food  at  the 
agencies,  and  as  the  game  is  gone,  hunger  has  made 
the  Indians  in  some  cases  desperate,  and  almost  any 
race  of  men  will  fight  rather  than  starve.  .  .  .  The 
question  of  justice  and  right  to  the  Indian  is  past 
and  cannot  be  recalled.  We  have  occupied  his  coun- 
try, taken  away  his  lordly  domain,  destroyed  his 
herds  of  game,  penned  him  up  on  reservations,  and 
reduced  him  to  poverty.  For  humanity's  sake  let  us 
[166] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

give  him  enough  to  eat  and  integrity  in  the  agent 
over  him." 

In  December  a  great  council  was  held  in  the  bar- 
rack-prison. The  Sioux  chiefs,  Red  Cloud,  American 
Horse,  Red  Dog,  and  No  Flesh,  came  over  from  their 
agency  to  attend  it.  The  Government  was  represented 
by  Captains  Wessells  and  Vroom  and  their  juniors. 
The  Cheyennes  were  gathered  in  a  close  circle,  the 
officers  and  visiting  chiefs  near  its  centre,  the  bucks 
back  of  them,  and  farther  back  still  the  squaws  and 
children. 

Red  Cloud  was  the  principal  Sioux  speaker.  He 
said  in  substance : 

"  Our  hearts  are  sore  for  you. 

"  Many  of  our  own  blood  are  among  your  dead. 
This  has  made  our  hearts  bad. 

"  But  what  can  we  do  ?  The  Great  Father  is  all- 
powerful.  His  people  fill  the  whole  earth.  We  must 
do  what  he  says.  We  have  begged  him  to  allow  you 
to  come  to  live  among  us.  We  hope  he  may  let  you 
come.  What  we  have  we  will  share  with  you.  But  re- 
member, what  he  directs,  that  you  must  do. 

"  We  cannot  help  you.  The  snows  are  thick  on  the 
hills.  Our  ponies  are  thin.  The  game  is  scarce.  You 
cannot  resist,  nor  can  we.  So  listen  to  your  old  friend 
[167] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

and  do  without  complaint  what  the  Great  Father  tells 
you." 

The  old  Cheyenne  war  chief,  Dull  Knife,  then 
stepped  slowly  to  the  centre  of  the  circle,  a  grim, 
lean  figure. 

Erect,  despite  his  sixty-odd  years,  with  a  face  of 
a  classical  Roman  profile,  with  the  steady,  penetrating 
glance  and  noble,  commanding  bearing  of  a  great 
leader  of  men,  Dull  Knife  stood  in  his  worn  canvas 
moccasins  and  ragged,  threadbare  blanket,  the  very 
personification  of  the  greatness  of  heart  and  soul 
that  cannot  be  subdued  by  poverty  and  defeat. 

Never  when  riding  at  the  head  of  hundreds  of  his 
wild  warriors,  clad  in  the  purple  of  his  race — ^leg- 
gings of  golden  yellow  buckskin,  heavily  beaded, 
blanket  of  dark  blue  broadcloth,  war  bonnet  of  eagles' 
feathers  that  trailed  behind  him  on  the  ground,  neck- 
lace of  bears'  claws,  the  spoils  of  many  a  deadly 
tussle — never  in  his  life  did  Dull  Knife  look  more  a 
chieftain  than  there  in  his  captivity  and  rags. 

He  first  addressed  the  Sioux: 

"  We  know  you  for  our  friends,  whose  words  we 

may  believe.  We  thank  you  for  asking  us  to  share 

your  lands.  We  hope  the  Great  Father  will  let  us 

come  to  you.  All  we  ask  is  to  be  allowed  to  live,  and 

[168] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

to  live  in  peace.  I  seek  no  war  with  any  one.  An  old 
man,  my  fighting  days  are  done.  We  bowed  to  the 
will  of  the  Great  Father  and  went  far  into  the  south 
where  he  told  us  to  go.  There  we  found  a  Cheyenne 
cannot  live.  Sickness  came  among  us  that  made 
mourning  in  every  lodge.  Then  the  treaty  promises 
were  broken,  and  our  rations  were  short.  Those  not 
worn  by  disease  were  wasted  by  hunger.  To  stay  there 
meant  that  all  of  us  Avould  die.  Our  petitions  to  the 
Great  Father  were  unheeded.  We  thought  it  better 
to  die  fighting  to  regain  our  old  homes  than  to  perish 
of  sickness.  Then  our  march  was  begun.  The  rest  you 
know." 

Then,  turning  to  Captain  Wessells  and  his  officers : 

"  Tell  the  Great  Father  Dull  Knife  and  his  people 
ask  only  to  end  their  days  here  in  the  north  where 
they  were  born.  Tell  him  we  want  no  more  war.  We 
cannot  live  in  the  south ;  there  is  no  game.  Here,  when 
rations  are  short,  we  can  hunt.  Tell  him  if  he  lets  us 
stay  here  Dull  Knife's  people  will  hurt  no  one.  Tell 
him  if  he  tries  to  send  us  back  we  will  butcher  each 
other  with  our  own  knives.  I  have  spoken." 

Captain  Wessells's  reply  was  brief — an  assurance 
that  Dull  Knife's  words  should  go  to  the  Great 
Father. 

The  Cheyennes  sat  silent  throughout  the  council, 
all  save  one,  a  powerful  young  buck  named  Buffalo 
[169] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

Hump — old  Dull  Knife's  son.  With  the  thin  strip  of 
old  canvas  that  served  as  his  only  covering  drawn 
tightly  about  his  tall  figure,  his  bronze  face  aflame 
with  sentiments  of  wrong,  of  anger,  and  of  hatred, 
Buffalo  Hump  strode  rapidly  from  one  end  to  the 
other  of  the  long  barrack  room,  casting  fierce  glances 
at  the  white  men,  the  very  incarnation  of  savage 
wrath.  From  beginning  to  end  of  the  council  I  mo- 
mentarily expected  to  see  him  leap  on  some  member 
of  the  party,  and  try  to  rend  him  with  his  hands. 

Of  course  nothing  came  of  the  council.  The  War 
and  Interior  Departments  agreed  that  it  would  be 
imprudent  to  permit  these  unsubduable  people  to  be 
merged  into  the  already  restless  ranks  of  the  Sioux. 
It  was  therefore  decided  to  march  them  back  south 
to  Fort  Reno,  whence  they  had  come. 

Fearing  disturbance  and  perhaps  outbreak  among 
the  Sioux  when  this  order  became  known,  Capt.  P. 
D.  Vroom,  with  four  troops  of  the  Third  Cavalry,  was 
ordered  to  reinforce  the  two  companies  of  the  gar- 
rison commanded  by  Captain  Wessells. 

Captain  Vroom's  column  reached  Robinson  early 
in  January,  1879,  and  went  into  quarters  at  Camp 
Canby,  one  mile  east  of  the  post,  and  Vroom  reported 
to  Wessells,  the  ranking  captain,  for  orders. 

January  opened  with  very  bitter  weather.  Six  or 
[170] 


The  Defiance  of  Dull  Knife 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

eight  inches  of  snow  covered  the  ground.  The  mer- 
cury daily  made  long  excursions  below  zero.  Even 
the  troops  in  cantonment  at  Canby  were  suffering 
severely  from  the  cold — some  with  frozen  feet  and 
hands.  It  was  all  but  impossible  weather  for  march- 
ing. 

Nevertheless,  on  January  5th,  Captain  Wessells 
received  orders  from  the  War  Department  to  imme- 
diately start  Dull  Knife's  band,  as  quietly  and  peace- 
ably as  possible,  and  under  proper  escort,  on  the 
march  to  Fort  Reno,  six  hundred  miles  away  in  the 
south!  This  was  the  decision  of  the  Indian  Bureau, 
and  the  Secretary  of  War  was  requested  to  have  the 
decision  immediately  enforced.  Hence  the  order  which 
reached  Captain  Wessells. 

Captain  Wessells  sent  a  guard  to  the  barrack  and 
had  Dull  Knife,  Old  Crow,  and  Wild  Hog  brought 
into  his  presence  at  headquarters.  On  the  arrival  of 
the  Indians  a  council  was  held.  Captain  Wessells  ad- 
vised them  of  the  order  of  the  Department  that  they 
were  to  return  to  the  Indian  Territory. 

Dull  Knife  rose  to  reply.  His  whole  figure  trembled 
with  rage;  his  bronze  cheeks  assumed  a  deeper  red; 
the  fires  of  suppressed  passion  blazed  through  his  eyes 
until  they  glittered  with  the  ferocity  of  an  enraged 
beast  at  bay.  Nevertheless,  he  spoke  slowly  and  almost 
[171] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

calmly.  He  did  not  have  much  to  say.  He  made  no 
threats  or  gestures. 

He  said  he  had  listened  to  what  the  Great  Father 
had  ordered.  It  was  the  dearest  wish  of  him  and  his 
people  to  try  to  do  what  the  Great  Father  desired, 
for  they  knew  they  were  helpless  in  his  hands.  But 
now  the  Great  Father  was  telling  them  to  do  what 
they  could  not  do — to  try  to  march  to  the  Indian 
Territory  in  such  weather.  Many  would  be  sure  to 
perish  on  the  way,  and  those  who  reached  the  res- 
ervation would  soon  fall  victims  to  the  fevers  that 
had  already  brought  mourning  into  nearly  all  their 
lodges.  If,  then,  the  Great  Father  wished  them  to  die 
— very  well,  only  they  would  die  where  they  then 
were,  if  necessary  by  their  own  hands.  They  would 
not  return  to  the  south,  and  they  would  not  leave 
their  barrack-prison. 

Captain  Wessells  knew  that  Dull  Knife's  complaint 
was  well  founded.  Still,  bound  by  the  rigid  rules  of 
the  service,  he  had  absolutely  no  latitude  whatever. 
He  therefore  directed  the  interpreter  to  explain  to 
Dull  Knife  that  the  orders  were  imperative  and  must 
be  obeyed,  and  to  assure  him  that  the  cavalry  escort 
would  do  all  in  their  power  to  save  the  Indians  from 
any  unnecessary  hardship  on  the  journey. 

Dull  Knife,  however,  remained  firm,  and  his  com- 
[172] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

panions,  when  appealed  to,  only  growled  a  brief  as- 
sent to  Dull  Knife's  views. 

"  Then,  Interpreter,"  said  Wessells,  "  tell  them 
their  food  and  fuel  will  be  stopped  entirely  until  they 
conclude  to  come  peaceably  out  of  their  barrack, 
ready  to  march  south  as  ordered." 

The  three  chiefs  silently  heard  their  sentence,  and 
were  then  quickly  marched  back  to  their  barrack- 
prison  by  a  file  of  soldiers. 

All  this  occurred  shortly  after  "  guard  mount " 
in  the  morning. 

Apart  from  its  inhumanity,  Wessells's  order  was 
bad  policy.  Hunger  drives  the  most  cowardly  to  vio- 
lence. Then,  to  add  to  the  wretched  plight  of  the  In- 
dians, they  were  all  but  naked.  No  clothing  had  been 
issued  to  them  since  their  capture,  and  they  were  clad 
only  in  tattered  blankets  and  fragments  of  tent  cloth. 
Requisitions  for  clothing  had  been  sent  to  the  Indian 
Bureau,  but  none  had  come. 

Thus,  half  naked,  without  food  or  fires,  these  mis- 
erable people  starved  and  shivered  for  five  days  and 
nights,  but  with  no  thought  of  surrender ! 

Captain  Wessells  sent  the  interpreter  to  pro- 
pose that  the  children  be  removed  and  fed,  but 
this  they  refused;  they  said  they  preferred  to  die 
together. 

[173] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

For  five  days  and  nights  the  barrack  rang  with 
shrill,  terrible  death  chants.  It  was  clear  that  they 
had  resolved  to  die,  and  weakening  fast  indeed  they 
were  under  the  rigours  of  cold  and  hunger,  weakening 
in  all  but  spirit. 

The  morning  of  the  9th  of  January,  the  fifth  day 
of  their  compulsory  fast,  Captain  Wessells  again 
summoned  Dull  Knife,  Old  Crow,  and  Wild  Hog  to  a 
council. 

Only  the  two  latter  came. 

Suspecting  violence,  the  Indians  refused  to  let  their 
old  chief  leave  the  barrack. 

Asked  if  they  were  ready  to  surrender.  Wild  Hog 
replied  that  they  would  die  first. 

The  two  chiefs  were  then  ordered  seized  and  ironed. 
In  the  struggle  Wild  Hog  succeeded  in  seriously 
stabbing  Private  Ferguson  of  Troop  A,  and  sounded 
his  war-cry  as  an  alarm  to  his  people. 

Instantly  pandemonium  broke  loose  in  the  Indian 
barrack. 

They  realised  the  end  was  at  hand. 

The  war  songs  of  the  warriors  rang  loudly  above 
the  shrill  death  chants  of  the  squaws. 

Windows  and  doors  were  quickly  barricaded. 

The  floor  of  the  barrack  was  torn  up  and  rifle-pits 
were  dug  beneath  it. 

[174] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

Stoves  and  flooring  were  broken  into  convenient 
shapes  for  use  as  war  clubs. 

The  twenty-odd  rifles  and  pistols  which  had  been 
smuggled  into  the  barrack,  by  slinging  them  about 
the  waists  of  the  squaws  beneath  their  blankets,  at 
the  time  of  the  capture,  were  soon  brought  from 
their  hiding  place  and  loaded. 

They  expected  an  immediate  attack,  but  none  came. 

And  all  day  long  the  garrison  was  kept  under  arms, 
ready  for  any  sortie  by  the  Indians. 

Night  at  last  came,  and,  notwithstanding  the  ter- 
rible warnings  of  the  day,  no  extraordinary  precau- 
tions were  taken.  A  guard  of  only  seventeen  men  were 
under  arms,  and  of  these  only  a  few  were  on  post 
about  this  barrack  full  of  maddened  savages. 

All  but  Captain  Wessells  were  so  certain  of  a  des- 
perate outbreak  that  night  that  Lieutenant  Baxter 
and  several  other  officers  sat  fully  dressed  and  armed 
in  their  quarters,  awaiting  the  first  alarm. 

"  Taps "  sounded  at  nine  o'clock,  the  barracks 
were  soon  darkened,  and  the  troopers  retired. 

Only  a  few  lights  burned  in  the  officers'  quarters 
and  at  the  trader's  store. 

The  night  was  still  and  fearfully  cold,  the  earth 
hid  by  the  snow. 

Ten  o'clock  came,  and  just  as  the  "  all's  well  "  was 
[175] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

passing  from  one  sentry  to  another,  a  buck  fired 
through  a  window  and  killed  a  sentry,  jumped 
through  the  window  and  got  the  sentry's  carbine  and 
belt,  and  sprang  back  into  the  barrack.  Then  two  or 
three  bucks  ran  out  of  the  west  door,  where  they 
quickly  shot  down  Corporal  Pulver  and  Private 
Hulz,  both  of  Troop  A,  and  Private  Tommeny,  of 
Troop  E. 

At  doors  and  windows  the  barrack  now  emptied  its 
horde  of  desperate  captives,  maddened  by  injustice 
and  wild  from  hunger.  Nevertheless,  they  acted  with 
method  and  generalship,  and  with  a  heroism  worthy 
of  the  noblest  men  of  any  race. 

The  bucks  armed  with  firearms  were  the  first  to 
leave  the  barrack.  These  formed  in  line  in  front  of 
the  barrack  and  opened  fire  on  the  guard-house  and 
upon  the  troopers  as  they  came  pouring  out  of  neigh- 
bouring barracks.  Thus  they  held  the  garrison  in 
check  until  the  women  and  children  and  the  old  and 
infirm  were  in  full  flight. 

Taken  completely  by  surprise,  the  troops,  never- 
theless, did  fearfully  effective  work.  Captain  Wessells 
soon  had  them  out,  and  not  a  few  entered  into  the 
fight  and  pursuit  clad  in  nothing  but  their  under- 
clothing, hatless  and  shoeless. 

The  fugitives  took  the  road  to  the  saw-mill  cross- 
[176] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

ing  of  White  River,  only  a  few  hundred  yards  distant 
from  their  barrack,  crossed  the  White  River,  and 
started  southwest  toward  my  ranch,  where  they  evi- 
dently expected  to  mount  themselves  out  of  my  herd 
of  cow  ponies,  for  they  carried  with  them  all  their 
lariats,  saddles,  and  bridles  to  this  point.  Here, 
pressed  hopelessly  close  by  the  troops,  their  gallant 
rear-guard  of  bucks  melting  fast  before  the  volleys 
of  the  pursuers,  the  Indians  dropped  their  horse 
equipments,  turned,  and  recrossed  White  River,  and 
headed  for  the  high,  precipitous  divide  between  Sol- 
dier Creek  and  White  River,  two  miles  nearer  their 
then  position  than  the  cliffs  about  my  ranch.  They 
knew  their  only  chance  lay  in  quickly  reaching  hills 
inaccessible  to  cavalry. 

All  history  affords  no  record  of  a  more  heroic, 
forlorn  hope  than  this  Cheyenne  sortie. 

Had  the  bucks  gone  alone,  many  would  surely  have 
escaped,  but  they  resolved  to  die  together  and  to  pro- 
tect their  women  and  children  to  the  last. 

Thus  more  than  half  their  fighting  men  fell  in  the 
first  half  mile  of  this  flying  fight.  And  as  the  warriors 
fell,  their  arms  were  seized  by  squaws  and  boys,  who 
wielded  them  as  best  they  could ! 

In  the  gloom  of  night  the  soldiers  could  not  dis- 
tinguish a  squaw  from  a  buck.  Lieutenant  Cummings 
[177] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

fell  into  a  washout  near  the  saw-mill  nearly  atop  of 
two  Indians.  They  attacked  him  with  knives,  but  he 
succeeded  in  killing  both  with  his  pistol — only  to  find 
that  they  were  squaws! 

The  struggle  was  often  hand-to-hand,  and  many 
of  the  dead  were  powder-burned.  For  a  long  distance 
the  trail  was  strewn  thick  with  bodies. 

A  sergeant  and  several  men  were  pursuing  two 
isolated  fugitives,  who  proved  to  be  a  buck  and  squaw. 
Suddenly  the  two  fugitives  turned  and  charged  their 
pursuers,  the  buck  armed  with  a  pistol,  the  squaw 
with  a  piece  of  an  iron  stove !  They  were  shot  down. 

This  running  fight  afoot  continued  for  nearly  a 
mile,  when  the  troops,  many  of  them  already  badly 
frozen,  were  hurried  back  to  the  garrison  to  get 
needed  clothing  and  their  mounts. 

Soldier  Creek  Ambuscades 

That  night  at  ten  o'clock  I  sat  in  my  room  at  the 
Deadman  Ranch,  five  miles  south  of  Fort  Robinson, 
writing  a  letter  descriptive  of  the  day's  incidents,  and 
of  the  peril  threatening  us,  to  my  then  partner,  Clar- 
ence King. 

I  had  ridden  into  the  garrison  that  morning  for 
my  mail,  and  was  passing  the  headquarters  building 
at  the  very  moment  the  fight  occurred,  in  which  Dull 
[178] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

Knife  and  Old  Crow  were  seized  and  bound — in  fact, 
dismounted  and  got  into  the  building  in  time  to  see 
the  finish  of  the  fight. 

I  had  remained  in  the  garrison  until  mid-afternoon, 
a  witness  of  the  desperate  temper  of  the  captives. 

Indeed,  I  do  not  think  there  was  an  officer  in  the 
garrison,  outside  of  the  commanding  officer,  who  did 
not  feel  perfectly  certain  in  his  mind  that  the  Chey- 
ennes  would  in  a  few  hours  at  the  most  make  a  finish 
fight  for  liberty,  for  from  the  hour  of  the  seizing  of 
the  two  chiefs,  all  day  long  death-chants  and  war- 
songs  were  ringing  in  the  barracks. 

In  the  event  of  such  an  outbreak,  our  position  at 
the  ranch  was  serious,  for  mine  was  the  only  large 
band  of  horses  then  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood, 
and  any  who  might  succeed  in  cutting  their  way 
through  the  troops  and  temporarily  eluding  pursuit 
were  certain  to  seek  mounts  from  my  cavallada.  I, 
therefore,  returned  to  the  ranch  in  time  to  have  the 
horses  rounded  up  and  thrown  in  stockade,  about 
which  a  guard  was  set  at  dark. 

At  precisely  10  p.m.  one  of  my  cowboy  guards 
sprang  into  my  room  and  cried : 

"  Th'  ball's  opened  down  thar  at  th'  Fort,  'n'  she's 
a  h 1  of  a  big  one !  " 

Hurrying  outside  into  the  clear,  still,  bitterly 
[179] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

cold  night,  I  could  plainly  hear  heavy  rifle  fire  at  the 
post  that  proved  a  desperate  engagement  was  on. 

The  north  end  room  of  the  ranch  house  itself  was 
a  stable,  in  which  on  emergency  nights  like  this  each 
of  us  had  his  best  horse  ready  saddled. 

Leaving  eight  men  to  guard  the  ranch  and  corrals, 
I  immediately  mounted  and  took  with  me  a  boy  named 
Matthews,  on  a  run  for  the  fort,  with  the  purpose 
to  learn  if  there  was  any  likelihood  of  any  of  the 
Cheyennes  escaping  in  our  direction. 

A  brilliantly  clear  night,  and  with  nearly  a  full 
moon,  we  could  see  a  considerable  distance  ahead  of 
us  over  the  snow,  so  that  there  was  comparatively 
small  risk  of  running  into  the  hostiles  unawares. 

Half-way  into  the  garrison  we  could  hear  heavy 
firing  on  our  left,  which  told  us  the  chase  led  west  up 
the  White  River  Valley. 

Then  suddenly  all  firing  ceased. 

Spurring  rapidly  ahead  at  full  speed,  we  soon 
reached  a  high,  conical  hill  about  two  hundred  yards 
south  of  the  saw-mill,  a  hill  which  commanded  a  full 
view  of  the  garrison,  and  we  rode  to  its  summit.         \ 

There  beneath  us,  across  the  valley,  lay  Fort  Rob- 
inson in  the  moonlight,  calm  and  still. 

In  the  entire  garrison  only  one  lamp  was  alight, 
and  that  at  Major  Paddock's  trader's  store. 
[180] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

No  one  could  fancy  that  Death  had  been  at  work 
there  in  one  of  his  most  terrible  forms. 

"  OP  Man,"  said  Matt,  "  I  reckon  we  better  pull 
our  freight  for  the  ranch.  From  all  that  shootin', 
'pears  to  me  like  there  caint  be  many  left  alive,  and 

that  d d  still  valley  don't  look  to  me  no  good 

country  to  go  into." 

However,  I  decided  to  ride  on  into  the  garrison, 
and  we  descended  the  hill  toward  the  river. 

Presently,  nearing  the  narrow  fringe  of  timber 
that  lined  the  stream,  we  could  see  ahead  of  us  a 
broad,  dark  line  dividing  the  snow :  it  was  the  trail  of 
pursued  and  pursuers — the  line  of  flight.  Come  to  it, 
we  halted. 

There  at  our  feet,  grim  and  stark  and  terrible  in 
the  moonlight,  lay  the  dead  and  wounded,  so  thick 
for  a  long  way  that  one  could  leap  from  one  body  to 
another ;  there  they  lay  grim  and  stark,  soldiers  and 
Indians,  the  latter  lean  and  gaunt  as  wolves  from 
starvation,  awful  with  their  wounds,  infinitely  pa- 
thetic on  this  bitter  night  in  their  ragged,  half- 
clothed  nakedness. 

We  started  to  ride  across  the  trail,  when  in  a  fallen 
buck  I  happened  to  notice  I  recognised  Buffalo 
Hump,  Dull  Knife's  son. 

He  lay  on  his  back,  with  arms  extended  and  face 
[  181  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

upturned.  In  his  right  hand  he  held  a  small  knife, 
a  knife  worn  by  years  and  years  of  use  from  the  use- 
ful proportions  of  a  butcher  knife  until  the  blade  was 
no  more  than  one  quarter  of  an  inch  wide  at  the  hilt, 
a  knife  descended  to  domestic  use  by  the  squaws  as  an 
awl  in  sewing  moccasins,  and  yet  the  only  weapon 
this  magnificent  warrior  could  command  in  this  his 
last  fight  for  freedom! 

As  I  sat  on  my  horse  looking  down  at  Buffalo 
Hump,  believing  him  dead,  the  picture  rose  in  my 
mind  of  the  council  in  which  he  had  stalked  from  end 
to  end  of  the  barrack,  burning  with  an  anger  and 
hatred  which  threatened  even  then  and  there  to  break 
out  into  violence,  when  suddenly  he  rose  to  a  sitting 
position  and  aimed  a  fierce  blow  at  my  leg  with  his 
knife.  Instinctively,  as  he  rose,  I  spurred  my  horse 
out  of  his  reach  and  jerked  my  pistol,  but  before  I 
could  use  it  he  fell  back  and  lay  still — dead. 

So  died  Buffalo  Hump,  a  warrior  capable,  with 
half  a  chance,  of  making  martial  history  worthy  even 
of  his  doughty  old  father. 

I  dismounted,  took  the  little  knife  from  his  hand, 
cut  its  tiny  leather  sheath  from  his  belt,  and  had  just 
remounted,  when  we  got  the  sharp  challenge,  "  Who 
goes  there  ?  "  from  the  dense  plum  thicket  to  the  west 
of  the  trail,  to  which  we  were  not  slow  in  answering, 
[  182  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

"  Friends  "  when  out  of  the  brush  marched  Lieut. 
George  Baxter  at  the  head  of  his  half-dressed,  dis- 
mounted troopers,  hastening  back  to  the  garrison 
for  their  horses. 

"  Where  are  your  Indians,  George .?  "  I  called. 

"  Every  mother's  son  gone  but  those  laid  out  along 
the  trail,  old  man,"  he  answered. 

Then  Matt  and  I  rode  on  into  the  post,  meeting 
Lieut.  Jim  Simpson  and  Dr.  Pettys,  out  with  a 
waggon  and  detail  of  men,  gathering  up  the  dead  and 
wounded. 

Immediately  on  hearing  the  fire,  Vroom,  at  Camp 
Canby,  had  thrown  two  troops  in  skirmish  order 
across  the  valley  to  prevent  escape  to  the  east,  and 
hurried  into  Robinson  himself  at  the  head  of  a  third 
troop. 

Already  mounted,  Vroom  was  the  first  to  overtake 
and  re-engage  the  flying  Cheyennes,  whose  knowledge 
of  the  geography  of  the  country  proved  remarkable. 
They  had  selected  a  high  bluff  two  miles  west  of  the 
post  as  their  means  of  escape,  its  summit  inaccessible 
to  horsemen  for  more  than  six  miles  from  the  point 
of  their  ascent. 

Almost  daily  for  months  had  I  ridden  beneath  this 
bluff,  and  would  readily  have  sworn  not  even  a  moun- 
tain goat  could  ascend  to  its  summit;  but,  hidden 
[  183  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

away  in  an  angle  of  the  cliff  lay  a  slope  accessible 
to  footmen,  and  this  the  Indians  knew  and  sought. 

Just  below  this  slope  Vroom  brought  the  rear 
guard  to  bay,  and  a  brief,  desperate  engagement  was 
fought.  The  Indians  succeeded  in  holding  the  troops 
in  check  until  all  but  those  fallen  under  the  fire  of 
Vroom's  command  were  able  to  reach  the  summit. 

Here  on  this  slope,  fighting  in  the  front  ranks  of 
the  rear  guard,  the  "  Princess,"  Dull  Knife's  young- 
est daughter,  was  killed! 

Further  pursuit  until  daylight  being  impossible, 
the  troopers  were  marched  back  into  the  garrison. 

By  daylight  the  hospital  was  filled  with  wounded 
Indians,  and  thirty-odd  dead — ^bucks,  squaws,  and 
children — lay  in  a  row  by  the  roadside  near  the  saw- 
mill, and  there  later  they  were  buried  in  a  common 
trench. 

At  dawn  of  the  10th,  Captain  Wessells  led  out  four 
troops  of  cavalry,  and,  after  a  couple  of  hours'  scout- 
ing, found  that  the  Indians  had  followed  for  ten  miles 
the  summit  of  the  high  divide  between  White  River 
and  Soldier  Creek,  travelling  straipfht  away  westward, 
and  then  had  descended  to  the  narrow  valley  of  Sol- 
dier Creek,  up  which  the  trail  lay,  plain  to  follow 
through  the  snow  as  a  beaten  road. 

Along  this  trail  Captain  Vroom  led  the  column 
[  184  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

at  the  head  of  his  troop.  Next  behind  him  rode 
Lieut.  George  A.  Dodd,  then  a  youngster  not  long 
out  of  West  Point,  and  later  for  many  years  rec- 
ognised as  the  crack  cavalry  captain  of  the  army. 
Next  behind  Dodd  I  rode. 

Ahead  of  the  column  a  hundred  yards  rode  Wom- 
an's Dress,  a  Sioux  scout. 

For  seventeen  miles  from  the  post  the  trail  showed 
that  the  fugitives  had  made  no  halt!  A  marvellous 
march  on  such  a  bitter  night  for  a  lot  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  many  of  them  wounded,  all  half  clad  and 
practically  starved  for  five  days! 

Presently  the  trail  wound  round  the  foot  of  a  high, 
steep  hill,  the  crest  of  which  was  covered  with  fallen 
timber,  a  hill  so  steep  the  column  was  broken  into 
single  file  to  pass  it.  Here  the  trail  could  be  seen 
winding  on  through  the  snow  over  another  hiU  a  half 
mile  ahead. 

Thus  an  ambush  was  the  last  thing  expected, 
but,  after  passing  the  crest  of  the  second  hill,  the 
Indians  had  made  a  wide  detour  to  the  north,  gained 
the  fallen  timber  on  the  crest  of  this  first  hill,  and  had 
there  intrenched  themselves. 

So  it  happened  that  at  the  moment  the  head  of 
Vroom's  column  came  immediately  beneath  their  in- 
trenchment,  the  Cheyennes  opened  fire  at  short  range, 
[  185  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

emptied  two  or  three  saddles,  and  naturally  and 
rightly  enough  stampeded  the  leading  troop  into 
the  brush  ahead  of  and  back  of  the  hill,  for  it  was  no 
place  to  stand  and  make  a  fight. 

And  here  a  funny  thing  happened.  Dodd  was  a 
youngster  then,  fuller  of  fight  than  experience,  and 
at  the  first  fire,  realising  the  hopelessness  of  work  in 
the  saddle  on  such  ground,  he  sprang  off  his  horse, 
and  had  no  more  than  hit  the  ground  before  his 
horse  jerked  loose  from  him,  and,  looking  about,  he 
found  himself  alone  on  the  hillside,  the  only  target, 
and  a  conspicuous  one,  for  the  Cheyennes'  fire. 

Nothing  remained  but  to  make  a  run  for  the  brush, 
and  a  good  run  he  made  of  it,  but,  encumbered  with  a 
buffalo  overcoat  and  labouring  through  the  heavy 
snow,  he  soon  got  winded  and  dropped  a  moment  for 
rest  behind  the  futile  shelter  of  a  sage  bush. 

Meantime,  the  troopers  had  reached  the  timber, 
dismounted,  taken  positions  behind  trees,  and  were 
pouring  into  the  Indian  stronghold  a  fire  so  heavy 
that  Dodd  was  soon  able  to  make  another  run  and 
escape  to  the  timber  unscathed. 

Arrived  there,  Vroom  noticed  Dodd  rubbing  the 
back  of  his  neck  and  asked  him  what  was  the  matter, 
when  Dodd  answered : 

"  Mighty  heavy  timber  I  was  lying  under  out  there, 
[186] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

wasn't  it  ?  You  know,  the  limbs  cut  off  by  the  Indians' 
fire  and  falHng  on  the  back  of  my  neck  felt  like  strokes 
from  a  baseball  bat !  " 

A  humorous  sarcasm  on  the  scanty  shelter  of  a 
sage  bush  and  the  slender  sage  twigs  Tommy  was 
picking  out  of  the  back  of  his  collar! 

The  Indian  stronghold  on  the  hilltop  was  soon 
surrounded  and  held  under  a  desultory  long-range 
fire  all  day,  as  the  position  was  one  impregnable  to  a 
charge. 

No  packs  or  rations  having  been  brought,  at  night- 
fall Captain  Wessells  built  decoy  camp  fires  about  the 
Indians'  position  and  marched  the  command  back 
into  the  garrison. 

The   Battle   on   War   Bonket   Bluffs 

Early  in  the  afternoon  of  the  10th,  shortly  after 
the  troops  had  surrounded  the  hill  held  by  the  hos- 
tiles,  I  rode  alone  back  into  the  garrison  and  started 
for  my  Deadman  Ranch. 

About  a  mile  south  of  the  saw-mill  I  met  a  trooper 
riding  at  high  speed  for  the  garrison,  and  turned  and 
rode  with  him. 

He  told  me  Lieutenant  Baxter,  with  a  detachment 
of  ten  men,  had  located,  on  the  slope  of  a  bluff  a  mile 
east  of  the  Deadman  Ranch,  a  camp  of  Indians  which 
[187] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

he  believed  represented  a  large  band  of  the  hostiles 
still  loose. 

Pointing  to  a  spur  of  the  bluffs  three  or  four  hun- 
dred feet  high  standing  well  out  into  the  valley  a 
scant  mile  east  of  my  ranch,  the  trooper  hurried  on 
into  the  garrison  for  reinforcements,  and  I  spurred 
away  for  the  bluff,  and  soon  could  see  a  line  of 
dismounted  troopers  strung  along  the  crest  of  the 
ridge. 

As  I  rode  up  to  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  skirmish  firing 
began  on  top  of  the  ridge. 

After  running  my  horse  as  far  up  the  hill  as  its 
precipitous  nature  would  permit,  I  started  afoot 
climbing  for  the  crest,  but,  finding  it  inaccessible  at 
that  point,  started  around  the  face  of  the  bluff  to 
the  east  to  find  a  practicable  line  of  ascent,  when  sud- 
denly I  was  startled  to  hear  the  ominous,  shrill  buzz 
of  rifle  balls  just  above  my  head,  from  the  skirmish 
line  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge — startled,  indeed,  for  I 
had  supposed  the  Indians  to  be  on  the  crest  of  the 
bluff,  farther  to  the  south. 

Dropping  behind  a  tree  and  looking  down-hill,  I 
saw  a  faint  curl  of  smoke  rising  from  a  little  wash- 
out one  hundred  yards  below  me,  and,  crouched 
beside  the  smouldering  fire  in  the  washout,  a  lone 
Indian. 

[188] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

This  warrior's  fight  and  death  was  characteristic 
of  the  magnificent  spirit  which  had  inspired  the  band, 
from  the  beginning  of  the  campaign  at  Fort  Reno. 

In  mid-afternoon,  scouting  to  the  south  of  the  gar- 
rison for  trails.  Lieutenant  Baxter  had  discovered 
this  camp  fire,  and,  quite  naturally  assuming  that 
none  but  a  considerable  band  of  the  Indians  would 
venture  upon  building  a  camp  fire  so  near  to  the  gar- 
rison, had  immediately  sent  a  trooper  courier  into  the 
garrison  with  advice  of  his  discovery. 

Then  he  dismounted  his  command  and  approached 
the  camp  fire  in  open  skirmish  order,  until  it  was 
plain  to  be  seen  that  the  fire  was  deserted.  The  trail 
of  a  single  Indian  led  into  the  washout,  and  imprints 
in  the  snow  showed  where  he  had  sat,  evidently  for 
some  hours,  beside  the  fire.  But  of  the  washout's 
fugitive  tenant  no  trace  could  be  found,  no  trail 
showing  his  route  of  departure.  In  one  direction, 
along  a  sharp  ridge  leading  toward  the  hogback's 
crest,  the  snow  was  blown  away,  the  ground  bare,  and 
this  seemed  to  be  his  natural  line  of  flight  from  Bax- 
ter's detachment. 

After  what  all  believed  a  thorough  search  of  the 

vicinity  of  the  fire,  Lieutenant  Baxter  left  Corporal 

Everett  and  a  trooper  near  the  fire,  and,  remounting, 

led  the  balance  of  his  men  up  the  slope  with  the  view 

[189] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

to   cut  the   Cheyenne's   trail  wheresoever  it   might 
again  enter  the  snow. 

Baxter  was  gone  barely  ten  minutes  when  he  was 
startled  by  two  rifle-shots  in  his  rear,  from  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  fire !  Looking  back,  he  saw  his  two  troopers 
prostrate  in  the  snow,  and  later  learned  that  Everett 
and  his  mate,  while  stamping  about  to  keep  warm, 
had  approached  a  little  shallow  washout  within  thirty 
yards  of  the  fire  that  all  vowed  they  had  looked  into, 
and  suddenly  had  discovered  the  Indian  lying  at  its 
bottom,  wrapped  in  a  length  of  dirty  old  canvas  the 
precise  colour  of  the  gray  clay  soil — which  doubtless 
had  served  to  conceal  him  through  the  earlier  search. 
The  moment  the  Indian  made  sure  he  was  discovered, 
he  cast  open  his  canvas  wrap  and  fired  twice  with  a 
carbine,  shooting  Corporal  Everett  through  the 
stomach  and  killing  him  almost  instantly,  and  seri- 
ously wounding  his  mate. 

Thus  rudely  taught  that  humanity  was  useless,  and 
that  it  must  be  a  fight  to  the  death,  observing 
"  Papa  "  Lawson  approaching  from  the  fort  at  the 
head  of  his  troop,  Baxter  swung  his  own  men  up  and 
along  the  top  of  the  ridge,  where  they  could  better 
command  the  old  Cheyenne's  position,  and  opened  on 
him  a  heavy  fire — and  it  was  just  at  this  juncture  I 
arrived. 

[190] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

Immediately  after  I  first  sighted  the  Indian, 
"  Papa "  Lawson  swung  around  the  foot  of  the 
hill  with  his  troop,  dismounted,  and  charged  up 
on  foot — thus  making  sixty  men  concentrated  upon 
one! 

The  old  Cheyenne  kept  up  his  rapid  fire  as  long  as 
he  could.  Toward  the  last  I  plainly  saw  him  fire  his 
carbine  three  times  with  his  left  hand,  resting  the 
barrel  along  the  edge  of  the  washout,  while  his  right 
hand  hung  helpless  beside  him. 

Suddenly  I  saw  him  drop  down  in  the  bottom  of 
the  washout,  limp  as  an  empty  sack. 

When  we  came  up  to  him  it  appeared  that  while 
the  shot  that  killed  him  had  entered  the  top  of  his 
head,  he  nevertheless  earlier  in  the  engagement  had 
been  hit  four  times — once  through  the  right  shoulder, 
once  through  the  left  cheek,  once  in  the  right  side, 
and  a  fourth  ball  toward  the  last  had  completely  shat- 
tered his  right  wrist. 

It  was  apparent  that  he  had  been  making  a  des- 
perate break  to  reach  my  horses,  which  usually  ran  in 
the  very  next  canon  to  the  west,  for  he  still  carried 
with  him  a  lariat  and  bridle ;  but  his  unprotected  feet 
had  been  so  badly  frozen  during  the  night  that  he  had 
become  entirely  unable  to  travel  farther,  and,  reahs- 
ing  himself  to  be  utterly  helpless,  in  sheer  desperation 
[191] 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

had  built  a  fire  to  get  what  poor,  miserable  comfort 
he  could  for  the  few  minutes  or  hours  remaining  to 
him! 

A  curious  incident  here  followed. 

An  ambulance  had  come  with  Lawson's  troop  to 
the  field,  in  which  the  body  of  Everett  and  his  wound- 
ed mate  were  placed,  while  the  body  of  the  dead  Chey- 
enne was  thrown  into  the  boot  at  the  back  of  the 
conveyance.  Upon  arrival  in  the  garrison.  Lieutenant 
Baxter  discovered  that  the  body  of  the  Indian  had 
been  lost  out  of  the  boot  on  the  short  four-mile 
journey  into  Robinson,  and  sent  back  a  sergeant  and 
detail  of  men  to  recover  it.  But  the  most  careful 
search  along  the  trail  failed  to  reveal  any  trace  of 
the  body,  and  whatever  became  of  it  to  this  day  re- 
mains a  mystery. 

On  the  night  of  the  10th  fifty-two  Indians  had 
been  recaptured,  approximately  half  of  them  more  or 
less  badly  wounded,  and  thirty-seven  were  known  to 
have  been  killed,  leaving  a  total  of  sixty  unaccounted 
for. 

Still  without  food,  on  the  morning  of  the  11th, 
the  seventh  day  of  their  fast,  and  unable  to  march 
farther,  Captain  Wessells's  column  found  the  fugi- 
tives occupying  a  strong  position  in  the  thick  timber 
along  Soldier  Creek  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  upon  which 
[  192  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

they  had  been  intrenched  the  day  before,  better  shel- 
tered from  the  severity  of  the  weather. 

Again  long-range  firing  was  the  order  of  the 
day,  for  a  charge  would  have  incurred  needless 
hazard. 

During  this  day  the  Indians  succeeded  in  killing  a 
troop  horse  on  an  exposed  hillside  within  three  or 
four  hundred  yards  of  their  position.  The  rider  nar- 
rowly escaped  with  his  life. 

The  ground  where  the  horse  fell  was  so  openly 
exposed  the  carcass  had  to  be  left  where  it  had  fallen, 
and  that  night,  after  Captain  Wessells  had  again 
marched  his  command  back  into  the  garrison,  the  car- 
cass furnished  the  first  food  these  poor  wretches  had 
eaten  for  seven  days ! 

That  their  hearts  were  firm  as  ever  and  that  all 
they  needed  was  a  little  physical  strength  the  next 
few  days  effectually  proved. 

The  12th  they  lay  eating  and  resting,  and  when  on 
the  13th  Wessells's  column  returned  to  the  attack, 
the  Indians  were  found  six  miles  farther  to  the  west, 
well  intrenched  on  the  Hat  Creek  Bluffs,  and  there 
again  an  ambush  was  encountered  in  which  two  troop- 
ers were  wounded. 

On  this  day  a  twelve-pound  Napoleon  gun  was 
brought  into  action,  and  forty  rounds  of  shell  were 
[  193  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

thrown  into  the  Indians'  position,  without  dislodg- 
ing them. 

This  same  day  Captain  Wessells  and  Lieutenants 
Crawford  and  Hardie  crept  near  the  rifle-pits  with 
an  interpreter  and  called  to  the  Cheyennes  to  bring 
out  their  women  and  children,  promising  them  shelter 
and  protection.  A  feeble  volley  was  the  only  reply ! 

Realising  the  Indians  had  now  reached  a  cattle 
country  in  which  they  could  kill  meat  and  subsist 
themselves,  Captain  Wessells  had  brought  out  a  pack- 
train,  with  blankets  and  rations,  to  enable  him  to  sur- 
round the  Indians'  position  at  night,  and,  should 
they  slip  away,  to  camp  on  their  trail. 

This  night  they  were  surrounded,  but  at  dawn  of 
the  14th  Lieutenant  Crawford  discovered  the  wily 
enemy  had  again  slipped  through  the  picket  lines, 
headed  southwestward  along  the  high  bluffs  which 
lined  the  southern  edge  of  Hat  Creek  Basin. 

For  six  days  more  the  same  tactics  on  both  sides 
prevailed ;  the  Indians  were  daily  followed  in  running 
fight,  or  brought  to  bay  in  strong  positions  prac- 
tically impregnable  of  direct  attack,  surrounded  at 
nightfall,  only  to  glide  away  like  veritable  shadows 
during  the  night,  and  of  course  more  or  less  were 
killed  in  these  daily  engagements. 

On  the  SOth  Captain  Wessells's  command  was 
[  194  ] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

joined  bj  Lieutenant  Dodd  and  a  large  band  of  Sioux 
scouts. 

Tuesday,  the  21st,  saw  the  finish. 

At  a  point  on  the  Hat  Creek  Bluffs,  near  the  head 
cf  War  Bonnet  Creek,  forty-four  miles  a  little  to 
the  south  of  west  of  Fort  Robinson,  the  Cheyennes 
lay  at  bay  in  their  last  intrenchment,  worn  out  with 
travel  and  fighting,  and  with  scarcely  any  ammuni- 
tion left. 

They  were  in  a  washout  about  fifty  feet  long, 
twelve  feet  wide,  and  five  feet  deep,  near  the  edge  of 
the  bluffs. 

Skirmishers  were  thrown  out  beneath  them  on  the 
slope  of  the  bluff  to  prevent  their  escape  in  that  di- 
rection, and  then  Captain  Wessells  advanced  on  the 
washout,  with  his  men  formed  in  open  skirmish  order. 

A  summons  through  the  interpreter  to  surrender 
was  answered  by  a  few  scattering  shots  from  the 
washout. 

Converging  on  the  washout  in  this  charge,  the 
troopers  soon  were  advancing  in  such  a  dense  body 
that  nothing  saved  them  from  terrible  slaughter  but 
the  exhaustion  of  the  Cheyennes'  ammunition. 

Charging  to  the  edge  of  the  pit,  the  troopers  emp- 
tied their  carbines  into  it,  sprang  back  to  reload, 
and  then  came  on  again,  while  above  the  crash  of  the 
[195] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

rifles  rose  the  hoarse  death  chants  of  the  expiring 
band. 

The  last  three  warriors  alive — and  God  knows  they 
deserve  the  name  of  warriors  if  ever  men  deserved  it — 
sprang  out  of  their  defences,  one  armed  with  an 
empty  pistol  and  two  with  knives,  and  madly  charged 
the  troops ! 

Three  men  charged  three  hundred ! 

They  fell,  shot  to  pieces  like  men  fallen  under 
platoon  fire. 

And  then  the  fight  was  over. 

The  little  washout  was  a  shambles,  whence  the 
troops  removed  twenty-two  dead  and  nine  living, 
and  of  the  living  all  but  two  (women)  were  badly 
wounded ! 

These  were  all  that  remained  out  of  the  sixty  un- 
accounted for  after  the  fighting  near  Fort  Robinson, 
excepting  five  or  six  bucks,  among  them  Chief  Dull 
Knife,  who  had  been  cut  off  from  the  main  band  in 
the  first  night's  fight  and  had  escaped  to  the  Sioux. 

And  among  the  Ogallala  Sioux  thereafter,  till  he 
died,  dwelt  Dull  Knife,  grim  and  silent  as  Sphinx  or 
dumb  man;  brooding  his  wrongs;  cursing  the  fate 
that  had  denied  him  the  privilege  to  die  fighting  with 
his  people ;  sitting  alone  daily  for  hours  on  the  crest 
of  a  Wounded  Knee  bluff  rising  near  his  tepee,  and 
[196] 


A    FINISH    FIGHT    FOR    A    BIRTHRIGHT 

gazing  longingly  across  the  wide  reaches  of  the  Bad 
Lands  to  a  faint  blue  line,  on  the  northwestern  hori- 
zon, that  marked  his  old  highland  home  in  the  Black 
Hills;  mentally  fighting  over  again  and  yet  again 
the  tussles  of  his  youth  and  the  battles  of  his  prime, 
until,  to  his  excited  vision,  the  valley  beneath  him  was 
again  filled  with  charging  war  parties — grimly  paint- 
ed men  naked  to  their  moccasins  and  breech-cloths 
on  ponies  naked  to  their  bridles — chanting  their  war 
songs,  the  eagle  feathers  of  dearly  won  war  bonnets 
flying  behind  them,  bow  strings  twanging,  lance 
clashing  on  bull-hide  shield;  and  then,  with  quivers 
empty  and  lances  broken,  the  last  deadly  tussle  hand- 
to-hand,  with  its  silent  knife  thrusts,  the  dull  thud  of 
the  deadly,  flexible-handled,  stone-headed  war  club, 
*iie  clutch  of  eager  fingers  on  scalp  locks,  and  the 
tearing  of  these  terrible  trophies  of  victory  from  still 
throbbing  heads ! 


[197] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 
McGILLICUDDY'S  SWORD 

ODDS  against  your  effective  fighting  force 
of  fourteen  hundred  to  one  are,  to  say  the 
least,  impressive.  To  be  sure  we  had  one 
hundred  alHes,  but  at  the  outset  they  were  naturally 
— as  will  appear  later — an  unknown  quantity. 

That  I  was  present  at  Red  Cloud's  White  Clay 
Agency  at  such  a  time  was  not  because  I  was  hunting 
trouble,  but  was  simply  due  to  the  fact  that  trouble 
seemed  to  take  a  lot  of  pleasure  in  hunting  the  few 
plains  dwellers  of  that  day  in  that  region — it  just 
came  to  all  of  us,  in  one  form  or  another,  in  the  course 
of  the  day's  work  in  the  late  '70s  and  early  '80s. 

And  it  came  naturally  and  rightly  enough.  We 
were  trespassers,  the  first  trespassers,  upon  the  best- 
beloved  camping  and  hunting  grounds  of  the  Sioux. 
To  be  sure  that  region  had  been  "  ceded  "  to  the  Gov- 
ernment. But  the  "  cession "  had  been  negotiated 
virtually  by  force  of  arms,  and  the  Sioux  resented  it, 
resented  it  the  more  for  that,  of  the  lands  left  to  them 
[198] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

as  their  reservation  in  perpetuity,  at  least  eighty  per 
cent  are  in  the  Dakota  Bad  Lands,  whose  expressive 
name  ill  conveys  their  inability  to  support  anything 
more  nearly  animate  than  the  rich  store  of  fossils  of 
prehistoric  life  that  must  forever  remain  the  only  ten- 
ants of  their  bald  buttes  and  naked  swales. 

There  were  only  a  few  of  us  then  to  the  north  of 
the  North  Platte  River,  all  cattle  ranchmen,  and  no 
nearer  settlement  than  Cheyenne,  our  supply  town, 
two  hundred  miles  to  the  southwest. 

For  three  years  we  had  no  county  organisation. 
Every  man  was  a  law  unto  himself.  In  the  extreme 
northwest  corner  of  Nebraska  we  were  nominally 
attached  for  all  legal  and  taxable  purposes  to  the 
next  organised  county  on  the  east,  Holt,  whose  coun- 
ty seat,  O'Neil,  lay  nearly  three  hundred  miles  away. 
But,  in  merry  frontier  practice,  Indians  and  road 
agents  were  so  industrious  that  for  the  first  three 
years  of  our  occupation  no  tax  assessor  or  other 
county  or  state  official  ever  appeared  as  a  reminder 
that,  technically,  we  dwelt  within  the  pale  of  the  law. 

Such  a  state  of  society  naturally  appealed  to  and 
attracted  predatory  reds  and  whites. 

Thus  the  one  thing  perhaps  a  trifle  more  insecure 
than  human  life  was  property. 

Dune.  Blackburn,  Jack  Wadkins,  Lame  Johnny, 
[199] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

and  like  knights  of  the  highway  lurked  along  the 
stage  roads,  preyed  upon  stage-coaches  and  tender- 
foot travellers  to  and  from  the  Black  Hills,  but  never 
monkeyed  with  bull  whackers  or  ranchmen;  outlaw 
cowboys  like  Jack  Handly,  Jack  Stroud,  and  Tom 
Kyle  stole  cattle  and  drove  them  to  the  mining  camps 
or  lifted  horses  and  ran  them  into  the  southeastern 
settlements ;  Indians — well,  whenever  times  were  oth- 
erwise dull  we  could  always  depend  upon  the  Indians 
for  an  ambush  of  our  range  riders  or  a  raid  upon  our 
horse  herds. 

Thus  there  was  always  enough  doing  to  keep 
one's  gun  from  getting  rusty  or  himself  from  over- 
sleeping. 

And  the  difficulties  in  dealing  with  such  condi- 
tions will  be  better  appreciated  when  it  is  explained 
that  the  average  ranch  outfit  seldom  numbered  more 
than  eight  to  twelve  men,  and  the  reader  is  re- 
minded that  ranches  were  rarely  nearer,  one  to  an- 
other, than  twenty  miles! 

The  remoteness  of  courts  and  the  lack  of  regu- 
larly constituted  sheriffs  or  other  peace  officers  in 
Northern  Wyoming,  Dakota,  and  Northwest  Ne- 
braska forced  the  ranchmen  to  organise,  for  mutual 
protection,  the  Wyoming  Stock  Growers'  Associa- 
tion, and  before  it  ceased  work  the  Association  did 
[200] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

much  toward  pacifying  the  country;  indeed,  in  so 
far  as  outlaw  cowboy  rustlers  was  concerned,  the 
country  was  made  quiet  and  peaceful  as  a  New  Eng- 
land village  graveyard. 

The  methods  of  the  Association  were  simple  but 
direct.  A  small  but  very  select  corps  of  highly  ex- 
pert man  hunters  was  employed,  and  a  member  of 
the  Executive  Committee  was  assigned  the  charge 
and  command  of  such  of  the  corps  as  were  assigned 
to  him  by  the  Committee. 

To  the  average  outlaw  of  the  day  it  was  such  a 
matter  of  professional  pride  to  "  die  with  his  boots 
on  "  rather  than  be  made  captive,  that  encounters 
of  hunters  and  hunted  nearly  always  meant  a  finish 
fight. 

At  the  time  I  was  the  member  of  the  Executive 
Committee  of  the  Association  in  charge  of  the  "  in- 
spectors "  assigned  to  my  district. 

Quite  the  most  serious  condition  in  our  district 
needing  attention  was  the  raiding  of  our  horse  herds 
by  the  Sioux.  Nominally  the  Sioux  and  the  whites 
had  been  at  peace  since  the  battle  of  the  Little  Big 
Horn;  but  the  young  bucks  were  hard  to  control, 
and  every  full  of  the  moon  plunder-bent  bands  of 
these  youngsters  slipped  quietly  away  from  the 
Agency  at  night  in  quest  of  the  wealth  most  highly 
[201] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

prized  by  Sioux  warriors — horseflesh — the  wealth 
with  which  brides  were  bought  and  battles  fought 
and  won.  For  girls  sought  in  marriage  were  valued 
in  terms  of  horses — the  greater  their  attractions  the 
more  horses  demanded — and  it  was  the  frequent 
fresh  remounts  from  their  abundant  horse  herds  that 
made  it  next  to  impossible  for  cavalry  (limited  to 
a  single  mount  per  man)  to  bring  hostile  Indians 
to  bay,  except  in  such  positions  and  circumstances 
of  advantage  as  the  hostiles  themselves  chose. 

The  troops  in  the  country  were  willing  enough, 
but  powerless  to  help  us.  The  identity  of  the  ma- 
rauders was  as  hopelessly  lost  in  the  mass  of  the 
tribe  as  that  of  the  horses  in  the  mass  of  the  Sioux 
herds. 

So  early  that  spring  I  went  to  the  White  Clay 
Agency  and  had  a  conference  with  Dr.  McGillicuddy, 
the  United  States  Government  agent  for  Red  Cloud's 
Lakotah  (Ogallala)  Sioux. 

Dr.  McGillicuddy  was  a  man  in  a  million  for  his 
post.  And  yet  he  only  did  his  duty,  plain  and  sim- 
ple; saw  that  his  Indians  got  the  last  pound  of 
provisions  and  supplies  and  the  last  yard  of  goods 
the  Indian  Bureau  allowed  and  sent  them;  dealt  with 
them  for  the  grown-up  children  they  in  many  ways 
were ;  humoured  their  whims,  but  boldly  opposed  and 
[202] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

checked  their  excesses;  strove  his  best  to  see  that 
they  had  justice;  sought  to  cut  their  war  trails 
into  short  paths  of  productive  peace  beginning  and 
ending  in  tilled  fields. 

Could  the  Indian  Bureau  have  commanded  the  ser- 
vices of  a  few  score  such  agents  through  the  last 
half  of  the  last  century,  half  our  Indian  wars  had 
never  happened,  for  at  least  that  percentage  had 
their  direct  cause  in  the  want  and  hunger  bred  of 
incapable  or  corrupt  handling  of  Indian  supplies. 

Before  becoming  agent,  McGillicuddy  had  been  an 
army  surgeon.  He  was  then  in  his  prime,  in  the  early 
thirties,  broad  of  shoulder,  lean  of  flank  and  jaw, 
with  a  steady-gazing,  searching  eye  of  the  sort  an 
enemy  finds  no  cheer  in.  And,  happily  alike  for  him 
and  his  charges,  he  owned  a  wife,  present  with  him 
at  his  post,  as  big  of  body,  stout  of  courage,  honest 
of  purpose,  and  kind  of  heart  as  was  he  himself — 
ideal  mates  they  were  for  their  task. 

Naturally,  the  more  McGillicuddy  could  check  the 
Sioux  warlike  practices,  the  easier  his  task  became. 
Indeed,  I  found  him  as  keen  to  assist  in  stopping 
their  predatory  raids  on  ranch  horse  herds  as  were 
we  of  the  Association.  He  told  me  he  had  already 
planned  the  organisation  of  a  small  band  of  Indian 
police,  which  shortly  he  intended  to  effect,  notwith- 
[  ^03  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

standing  the  proposal  had  been  met  by  bitter  oppo- 
sition from  all  the  active  leaders  of  the  tribe,  and 
with  this  force  to  patrol  the  reservation  for  return- 
ing bands  of  horse  stealers.  Thus  he  hoped  to  come 
upon  them  before  they  had  time  to  burn  out  brands 
and  otherwise  disfigure  and  disguise  the  stolen  horses 
past  identification. 

This  plan  was  a  long  step  to  the  good ;  and  when 
I  suggested  placing  permanently  at  the  Agency  one 
of  our  inspectors  expert  in  brand  reading  and  he 
promptly  assented,  all  that  we  could  hope  or  expect 
of  the  agent  was  accomplished. 

A  few  days  later  one  of  my  best  men,  Charlie 
Conley,  took  station  at  the  Agency,  but  it  was  sev- 
eral weeks  before  the  agent  succeeded  in  organising 
his  police  force. 

Ultimately,  McGillicuddy  chose  a  young  warrior, 
named  Sword,  and  told  him  if  he  would  organise  a 
band  of  one  hundred  youngsters  no  more  than  twen- 
ty years  old  to  serve  as  police,  he  would  uniform, 
arm,  and  equip  them,  and  would  make  Sword  chief 
of  the  band.  "  But  mind,"  explained  the  agent  to 
Sword,  "  if  any  of  your  own  nearest  relations  do 
wrong,  and  I  send  you  out  to  arrest  them,  in  you 
must  bring  them,  dead  or  alive !  "  All  this  was  nuts 
for  Sword,  for  it  not  only  gave  an  important  com- 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

mand  to  a  man  then  only  a  warrior,  but  also  gave 
him,  as  executor  of  the, agent's  orders,  general  au- 
thority over  even  the  elders  and  chiefs  of  the  tribe. 

And  little  did  the  tribe  like  it,  old  or  young,  for 
it  was  not  long  until  the  police,  aided  materially 
by  Inspector  Conley,  made  important  recoveries  of 
stolen  stock,  and  interfered  seriously  with  their  pred- 
atory pleasures  and  profits. 

But  just  as  I  began  to  feel  that  I  could  see  a 
safe  solution  of  the  Indian  end  of  our  problem,  trou- 
ble loomed  up  from  an  unexpected  quarter. 

Both  Dr.  McGillicuddy  and  Inspector  Conley 
were  men  of  a  hair-trigger  temper,  the  former 
wedded  to  and  the  latter  divorced  from  everything 
that  stood  for  punctilious  formalities.  So  it  was  not 
long  until  they  fell  foul  of  each  other. 

Presently,  one  day  early  in  June,  the  same  mail 
brought  me  two  brief  letters — one  from  the  doctor 
stating  that  if  I  did  not  recall  my  inspector  im- 
mediately, he  would  have  him  run  off  the  reservation 
by  the  Indian  police;  the  other  from  Conley  saying 
that  unless  I  gave  him  authority  to  leave  the  Agency 
pretty  quick,  he  reckoned  he'd  have  to  kill  the  agent. 

Neither  gave  any  explanation — from  which  I  in- 
ferred the  difficulty  was  purely  personal  and  tem- 
peramental, of  a  sort  possible  of  patching. 
[205] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

So  that  evening  I  forked  a  bronco  and  hit  the 
trail  for  the  Agency,  sixty  miles  away,  where  I 
arrived  early  the  next  morning. 

And  I  found  myself  come  none  too  soon ;  the  agent 
was  about  ready  to  order  the  inspector's  expulsion 
by  the  police,  and  the  inspector  was  quite  ready  to 
kill  the  agent  if  he  attempted  anything  of  the  sort, 
and  then  take  his  chances  of  shooting  his  way 
through  the  police  to  escape — in  the  carrying  out 
of  which  uncomplicated  strategy  the  odds  would 
have  been  ten  thousand  to  one  against  Conley,  for 
the  entire  tribe  would  have  welcomed  a  chance  to 
pot  him.  However,  about  a  little  matter  of  odds 
men  of  Conley's  breed  never  worried,  where  the 
stakes  were  no  more  than  one's  own  life. 

And  this  highly  tense,  really  deadly,  situation 
had  its  origin  in  what.? 

In  the  fact  that  Conley  had  developed  the  friendly 
habit  of  coming  unbidden  to  the  doctor's  office,  roll- 
ing and  smoking  cigarettes  unasked,  and  roosting 
his  feet  comfortably  on  the  doctor's  desk,  prefera- 
bly on  a  corner  of  his  writing  pad! 

The  differences  were  not  hard  to  adjust.  Secretly 

each  respected  the  other,  knew  the  other  was  doing 

good  work  and  a  man  all  through.  Conley  was  sorry 

he  had  "  mussed  the   doctor's   humany   frills,"   the 

[206] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

doctor  that  he  had  resented  Conley's  notion  of  so- 
ciability. So  by  the  second  day  I  had  them  at  hand- 
shakes, and  the  best  of  friends. 

That  evening  three  army  officers  arrived — Major 
John  G.  Bourke,  of  the  Third  Cavalry,  and  Lieu- 
tenants Waite  and  Goldman,  of  the  Fifth  Cavalry. 
Major  Bourke  was  well  chosen  for  the  task  that 
brought  him,  viz.,  a  study  of  the  Sun  Dance,  due 
to  begin  the  next  morning,  for  his  previous  studies 
and  writings  on  Moqui  Snake  Dancing,  Zuni  Fire 
Worship,  and  Apache  Medicine  Men  remain  the  most 
valuable  contributions  to  the  literature  of  these 
subjects. 

On  a  bench  above  and  to  the  east  of  the  narrow 
valley  of  White  Clay  Creek  stood  the  Agency.  With- 
in a  low  wall,  topped  by  a  picket  fence  and  nearest 
the  creek,  stood  Dr.  McGillicuddy's  office,  a  hun- 
dred feet  east  his  residence,  beyond  that  the  great 
Wakan-pomani  building,  the  "  Mysterious  Give 
Away  House,"  the  ware-  or  storehouse  that  held 
the  suppHes  sent  by  the  Government  for  distribu- 
tion by  the  agent,  probably  first  called  Wdkan 
(mysterious)  by  the  Sioux  because  to  them  it  must 
have  been  matter  of  mystery  however  such  vast 
store  of  riches  could  be  assembled  at  one  time  and 
place.  Across  the  road  from  the  WaJcaiv-pomam 
[  207  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

stood  the  store  of  the  licensed  Indian  trader,  Mr, 
Blanchard. 

In  mid-forenoon  of  the  next  day  all  of  us  were 
assembled  in  Dr.  McGillicuddj's  office,  by  his  invi- 
tation, to  take  ambulance  for  the  dance — Major 
Bourke,  Lieutenants  Waite  and  Goldman,  Mr. 
Blanchard,  Charlie  Conley,  and  myself.  Mr.  Lord, 
the  doctor's  clerk,  and  Louis  Changro,  his  half- 
breed  interpreter,  were  also  in  the  office. 

Sword,  Chief  of  Police,  had  been  about  with  sev- 
eral of  his  men,  but  at  the  moment  was  outside.  His 
men  (and  usually  he  himself)  were  uniformed  neatly 
in  blue  jackets  and  trousers  and  soft  black  hats. 

But  this  morning  Sword  was  a  sartorial  wonder. 
Above  beautifully  beaded  moccasins  of  golden  yel- 
low buckskin  rose  the  graceful  lines  of  well-fitting 
dark  blue  broadcloth  trousers,  circled  at  the  waist 
by  a  beaded  belt  carrying  two  six-shooters  and  a 
knife,  topped  by  a  white  shirt,  standing  collar,  and 
black  bow  tie,  and  by  a  perfectly  made  vest  and 
"  cutaway "  coat  matching  the  trousers  (the  vest 
decorated  with  a  metal  watch-chain  yellow  as  the 
moccasins),  crested  by  a  well-brushed  silk  top  hat — 
while  from  beneath  the  top  hat  defiantly  swung 
Sword's  scalp-lock,  a  standing  challenge  to  whom- 
soever dared  try  to  take  it! 
[  208  ] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

And  yet,  despite  this  opera  bouffe  rig,  Sword, 
with  the  bronze  of  handsome  features  Ht  by  the 
flash  of  piercing  black  eyes,  supple  of  movement, 
soft  of  tread,  dignified  in  bearing.  Sword  stood 
a  serious  and  even  a  heroic  figure — the  man  who 
dared  court  the  most  bitter  tribal  opposition  and 
enmity  by  undertaking  the  enforcement  of  white 
men's  law  as  administered  by  Agent  McGilli- 
cuddy. 

While  we  were  quietly  chatting,  the  rest  of  us 
pumping  Bourke  and  the  doctor  for  what  they  had 
of  Sun  Dance  lore,  suddenly  we  were  interrupted 
by  the  startlingly  quick  entry  of  Sword,  who  slipped 
in  softly  and  swiftly  as  a  shadow  and  began  a  low- 
spoken,  hurried  statement  to  Changro. 

Presently  Changro  turned  and  interrupted: 

"  Sword  he  say  heap  Injun  come  down  White  Clay 
— ride  war  ponies — ^all  Brules.  Sword  he  no  like 
looks." 

And,  after  a  glance  out  of  the  door,  I  am  sure 
none  of  us  liked  the  looks  of  things — of  the  things 
most  actively  animate  in  our  immediate  landscape — 
any  more  than  Sword  did. 

A  band  of  between  three  and  four  hundred  bucks 
sat  their  war  ponies  about  three  hundred  yards 
from  the  gate.  A  thick  cloud  of  dust  behind  and 
[209] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

south  of  them  showed  they  had  approached  at  top 
speed,  and  had  just  stopped,  evidently  for  a  con- 
ference. 

Presently  ten  advanced  slowly  toward  the  office 
gate,  while  the  rest  of  the  band  withdrew  the  way 
they  had  come,  ultimately  stopping  about  eight  hun- 
dred yards  away. 

By  Dr.  McGillicuddy's  advice,  all  of  us  resumed 
our  seats. 

Acting  almost  in  unison,  curiously,  evidently 
moved  at  the  same  moment  by  the  same  thought, 
several  of  us  proceeded  to  take  on  a  bit  of  extra 
insurance  by  slipping  spare  cartridges  into  the 
"  hammer  chamber  "  of  our  pistol  cylinders,  usually 
carried  empty  for  purposes  of  better  safety  against 
accidental  discharge.  I  am  sure  I  should  have  been 
glad  to  have  a  pistol  into  which  I  could  have  emp- 
tied the  entire  contents  of  my  full  belt,  for  the  odds 
against  us  looked  rather  long. 

The  B rules,  two  thousand  of  whom  had  come  over 
from  Rosebud  to  attend  the  Sun  Dance,  were  well 
known  for  an  ugly,  desperate  lot.  Indeed,  they  had 
been  spoiled  by  an  agent  who  lacked  most  of  the  good 
qualities  McGillicuddy  possessed.  Honest  enough  in 
his  administration,  he  was  afraid  of  his  charges,  and 
they  knew  it  and  took  advantage  therefrom  when 
[  210  ] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

and  how  they  pleased — even  to  the  point  of  sub- 
jecting him  to  downright  insult.  At  Rosebud  Agen- 
cy, not  the  agent  but  Spotted  Tail  exercised  au- 
thority. 

Indeed,  it  was  common  report  that  more  than  once 
Spot  forced  the  agent  to  read  to  him  letters  writ- 
ten the  Indian  Bureau  about  Agency  affairs,  and 
snatched  and  tore  up  several  he  did  not  like  and 
threw  them  in  the  agent's  face. 

And  it  was  a  band  of  these  bronze  beauties  now 
approaching — with  some  demand  sure  to  be  arro- 
gant and  utterly  unreasonable. 

Presently  they  entered  the  office,  the  ten  of  them, 
each  with  the  outline  of  a  rifle  showing  beneath  his 
blanket,  grunted  a  gruff  "  How ! "  and  squatted  on 
the  floor  facing  the  agent,  with  their  backs  against 
the  north  wall  of  the  room,  nearest  the  door — a 
scowling,  sinister  lot,  plainly  come  on  no  honest 
errand. 

After  sitting  in  absolute  silence  fully  ten  min- 
utes the  Brule  chief,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten — 
a  tall,  powerful  buck  of  forty-five,  with  narrow-set, 
evil,  ferret  eyes — turned  to  Changro,  the  interpre- 
ter, and  growled: 

"  You  tell  agent  we  want  grub ! " 

"  You  tell  him,  Louis,"  repHed  McGillicuddy,  "  I 
[211  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

am  advised  by  his  agent  that  he  and  his  people 
come  fully  rationed  for  the  round  trip." 

"  You  tell  agent  he  must  give  us  grub — now, 
NOW !  "  fiercely  demanded  the  chief. 

Looking  the  chief  straight  in  the  eye,  a  half-smile 
on  his  face,  McGillicuddy  quietly  answered: 

"  Louis,  just  tell  him  to  go  to  hell — he  gets  no 
grub  at  this  Agency." 

Instantly  the  chief  bounded  to  his  feet,  swiftly 
crossed  to  the  doctor's  chair,  and,  angrily  shaking 
his  fist  in  the  doctor's  face,  hoarsely  shouted: 

"  If  you  don't  give  us  grub — now! — I'll  kill  every 
white  man  on  this  reservation." 

For  an  age,  it  seemed,  the  chief  stood  and  Mc- 
Gillicuddy sat  confronting  each  other,  a  wicked 
scowl  on  the  chief's  face,  a  smile  on  McGillicuddy's. 

Presently  I  saw  Mac's  jaws  tighten,  and  then, 
without  a  word,  he  sprang  upon  the  chief,  seized 
him  by  the  throat,  and  shook  him  till  his  rifle  fell 
to  the  floor,  then  rushed  him  to  the  door,  whirled 
him  around  till  a  full  if  not  a  fair  target  was  pre- 
sented, and  then  landed  duly  upon  the  target  as 
hard  a  kick  as  any  I  ever  saw  delivered  on  a  try 
for  "  goal,"  sending  the  chief  sprawling  nearly  ten 
feet  from  the  door,  hurt  of  person  and  spirit  by 
the  indignity  and  half-smothered  from  the  choking 


If  you  don't  give  us  grub,  I'll  kill  every  white  man  on  this 
reservation ! ' ' 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

— a  little  the  maddest,  most  hideously  snarling  thing 
I  ever  saw. 

Immediately  his  nine  henchmen  ran  out  and  helped 
him  to  his  feet. 

Instinctively  we  all  lined  up  outside  the  door, 
backs  to  the  wall,  and  among  us,  to  our  surprise, 
came  by  magic  about  a  dozen  of  Sword's  youngster 
policemen,  each  fingering  first  the  trigger  and  then 
the  hammer  of  his  rifle  like  a  guitar  player  strum- 
ming for  the  key  to  a  tune. 

"  Reckon  the  ball's  plumb  open  now,  an'  it's 
*  swing  partners,' "  drawled  Charlie  Conley — the 
only  remark  made  by  any  one  I  can  now  recall. 

For  a  few  minutes  it  was  touch  and  go  for  us. 
A  single  shot  and  it  would  have  been  all  over  in  a 
very  few  minutes.  Escape  was  quite  as  impossible 
as  help.  Indeed,  the  one  troop  of  cavalry  at  Fort 
Sheridan,  eighteen  miles  away,  and  the  two  troops 
at  Fort  Robinson,  sixty  miles  distant,  if  pres- 
ent, would  not  have  lasted  an  hour — the  ball  once 
opened. 

It  was  therefore  a  great,  if  only  a  temporary, 
relief  when  presently  the  chief  and  his  men  sullenly 
withdrew  through  the  gate  and  retired  toward  his 
band. 

"  Mama !  but  won't  hell  pop  good  and  plenty  in 
[213] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

about  half  an  hour  when  that  old  coffee-cooler  gits 
back  with  his  bunch  to  finish  the  ball!  But  we'll 
sure  make  'em  think  we  can  dance  some  befo'  the 
music  stops,"  expressed  Conlejr's  wholly  experienced 
view  of  the  situation. 

"  Major  Bourke,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you  are  the 
senior  officer  present — will  you  assume  command  ?  " 

"  No,  doctor,"  answered  Bourke ;  "  you  are  in  su- 
preme authority  here,  I  on  duty  detached  from  my 
arm  of  the  service ;  and  " — with  a  grim  smile  of 
approval — "  you  seem  to  me  to  be  doing  quite  well 
enough.  Command  me  as  your  aide." 

Without  a  word,  Sword  and  his  men  had  disap- 
peared toward  their  camp  below  the  bluff,  a  hundred 
yards  distant,  as  soon  as  the  Brules  left.  And 
Sword's  withdrawal  was  no  small  source  of  anxiety; 
for,  notwithstanding  their  apparently  excellent  con- 
duct through  the  crisis  just  past,  nevertheless  this 
was  the  first  really  serious  test  of  the  loyalty  of  his 
police. 

However,  we  were  not  long  left  in  doubt.  Indeed, 
our  doubt  was  most  gratefully  relieved — after  we 
got  over  the  violent  attack  of  heart  disease  super- 
induced by  the  manner  of  their  return. 

The  Brule  chief  and  his  band  we  had  been  watch- 
ing like  hawks.  Apparently  none  had  been  detached, 
[  214  ] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

and  they  were   still  in   conference   several   hundred 
yards  away. 

Mrs.  McGillicuddy  and  Mrs.  Blanchard  had  been 
brought  to  the  office — for  whatever  poor  protection 
we  could  give  them. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  hidden  valley  beneath  and 
west  of  us  rose  a  thunder  of  hoofs  that  seemed  to 
herald  some  newcomers  to  the  ball  we  certainly  had 
not  invited. 

Down  we  all  dropped  behind  the  fence  wall,  rifles 
cocked  and  levelled,  and  we  were  barely  down  when 
up  over  the  bluff,  not  thirty  yards  distant,  charging 
us  at  mad  speed,  came  a  sure-enough  war  party. 
Keen  eyes  sought  sights  and  fingers  were  already 
pressing  triggers  when  Changro  shouted: 

"  No  shoot !  Sword  he  come !  " 

It  was  indeed  our  trusty  Sword,  with  every  man- 
jack  of  his  youngsters! 

Reining  in  at  the  gate.  Sword  quietly  led  his  men 
behind — ^to  the  north  of — the  office,  left  the  ponies 
in  charge  of  a  few  horse  holders,  and  then  lined  his 
men  along  the  wall  beside  us — honest  Sword !  ready 
to  come  to  death  grips  with  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
in  defence  of  his  white  chief! 

Dr.  McGillicuddy  may  have  known  a  prouder  and 
happier  moment  than  this,  but  I  doubt  it. 
[215] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

But  what  a  transformed  Sword  now  stood  among 
us!  How  changed  he  and  his  men! 

The  years  had  rolled  back;  yea,  indeed,  the  cen- 
turies ! 

In  ten  minutes  we  had  lost  a  regularly  uniformed 
police  force,  led  by  a  chief  habited  like  a  veritable 
civilised  dandy,  and  had  gained  in  its  stead  a  band 
of  barbarian  allies,  absolutely  naked  to  their  mocca- 
sins and  scanty  breech-cloths,  their  faces  black- 
painted  and  half  hidden  beneath  great  war  bonnets 
of  streaming  eagle  feathers,  as  were  those  of  their 
savage  ancestors  whenever  they  went  to  war  or  when 
their  "  hearts  were  bad  "  and  they  sought  to  kill  in 
private  quarrel;  so  habited  and  painted,  their  for- 
bears sought  their  enemies  way  back  in  the  dim  past 
when  their  race  dominated  much  of  the  Atlantic 
coast,  when  even  the  mound  builders  were  still  young. 

Naked,  also,  to  the  bridle  were  their  war  ponies. 

But  however  habited,  whatever  their  motives  of 
allegiance — whether  of  attachment  and  fidehty  to 
their  white  chief  or,  what  was  far  more  likely,  of 
pride  of  office  and  conceit  of  authority — welcome  to 
us,  indeed,  these  brave  lads  were. 

And  they  got  to  us  none  too  soon;  for,  before 
they  were  well  settled  behind  the  wall  (that  made 
us  an  excellent  breastwork),  here  came  the  Brules, 
[  ^16  ] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

hell-a-ta-tilt,  quirts  pounding  on  straining  shoulders, 
moccasined  heels  drumming  on  heaving  flanks,  the 
fierce  riders  lying  low  over  the  withers  and  getting 
every  last  jump  out  of  their  piebald  cayuse  mounts. 

Here  they  came — nearly  four  hundred  of  them — 
charging  straight  on  our  position  before  the  office, 
an  irregular  but  solid  mass  of  straining  horses  and 
yelling  riders,  apparently  bent  upon  riding  us  down 
— a  living,  breathing,  sentient  yet  remorseless  tide, 
weighty  enough  to  raze  wall  and  office  to  the  ground 
at  the  first  impact,  and  leave  naught  behind  but 
splintered  boards  and  bones. 

Here  they  came  and  there  we  sat,  ours  far  the 
hardest  part  of  it;  theirs  the  excitement  and  hope 
of  conquest  born  of  a  charge  in  overwhelming  num- 
bers, ours  the  dull,  chill  wait  for  the  end  bred  of 
a  sense  of  hopeless  odds  against  us;  theirs  the  hot, 
savage  lust  for  blood,  ours  the  despair  of  men  con- 
demned past  hope  of  reprieve. 

Hope?  Such  sentiment  for  us  no  more  existed. 
Even  were  we  able  to  withstand  the  B  rules  for  a 
time,  it  still  remained  a  certainty  the  prevailing  hos- 
tility to  the  police  would  bring  the  whole  Ogallala 
tribe  in  upon  us  so  soon  as  powder  burned  and  blood 
ran. 

The  doctor's  orders  were  simple: 
[  217  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"  Fire  under  no  circumstances  till  ordered !  "  Ko 
more. 

On  they  came,  and  yet  on! 

Time  and  again  I  caught  a  bead  on  the  chief's 
breast  with  my  .45-120  Sharps  that  easily  might 
have  sent  him  ifito  permanent  camp  on  Ghost  Creek, 
and  it  is  a  miracle  I — or  none  of  the  others — pulled 
trigger. 

At  length,  when  their  steady  on-rush  must  have 
become  trying  even  to  McGillicuddy's  iron  nerves, 
they  reined  in  and  stopped  a  scant  sixty  yards  in 
front  of  us — ^why,  God  only  knows,  unless  the 
steady  nerve  of  his  control  of  us  got  on  their  nerves. 
But  stop,  happily,  they  did — a  grim,  heaving, 
threatening  mass,  darkly  outlined  against  the  wall 
of  gray  dust  behind  them,  feathered  war  bonnets 
dancing,  ponies  prancing,  shields  rattling,  weapons 
gleaming. 

And  there  they  stayed,  for  Heaven  only  knows 
how  long,  until  it  would  have  been  a  relief  to  see 
the  charge  renewed. 

With  the  best  of  us  there's  a  breaking  point. 
Presently  McGillicuddy's  was  reached. 

"  Jump  out  there,  Louis,"  he  called  to  the  inter- 
preter, "  and  tell  that  old  devil  to  chase  himself 
back  to  camp.  I'll  give  him  five  minutes  before  we 
[  218  ] 


McGILLICUDDY'S    SWORD 

fire,  no  more.  Tell  him,  if  ever  he  bats  his  eyes  at 
me  again  I'll  just  choke  him  to  death  for  luck  " — a 
cropping  out  of  the  old  Anglo-Saxon  confidence  in 
good  bare  hands  against  an  armed  brute! 

Out  sprang  Changro  with  the  message,  and  up 
jumped  the  doctor  on  the  wall,  watch  in  hand,  pre- 
pared to  time  the  making  of  his  message  good. 

Half-way  Changro  stopped  and  shouted  his  mes- 
sage, and  then  returned  to  us.  It  was  a  plucky  deed 
of  him,  for  none  of  us  expected  to  shake  his  hand 
again. 

Then  ensued  a  brief,  heated  parley  among  the 
Brules.  Judging  by  his  angry  gesticulations,  the 
chief,  bursting  with  resentment,  wanted  to  charge. 
The  rest  of  the  band — most  of  them,  at  least — 
seemed  to  be  opposing  it :  apparently,  seven  or  eight 
minutes'  contemplation  of  the  mouths  of  our  one 
hundred  rifles  left  the  Brules  little  stomach  to  wait 
to  hear  them  speak. 

Hold  them  the  old  chief  could  not,  and  they 
turned  and  rode  off  south,  up  White  Clay,  toward 
Sun  Dance  Flat. 

And  then  I  awakened  to  a  curious  fact  I  wish 
some  clever  physiologist  would  explain,  an  experi- 
ence had  before  this  incident,  and  since  when  placed 
in  like  circumstances — either  under  threatened  or 
[  219  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

actual  fire:  while  it  was  mid- forenoon  and  not  ex- 
tremely hot,  while  the  affair  had  lasted  little  if  any 
more  than  forty  minutes  and  we  had  been  subjected 
to  no  physical  exertion,  I  found  I  had  developed  a 
consuming,  burning  thirst  and  parched  mouth  quite 
as  distressing  as  that  I  felt  once  when  in  the  desert 
two  full  days  without  water.  And  others  have  told 
me  they  have  had  like  droll  experience  under  simi- 
lar conditions. 


[220] 


CHAPTER   NINE 
THE    LAST   GREAT   SUN    DANCE 

TWELVE    THOUSAND    WILD    SIOUX   BUN  WOBSHIPPEEa  SACRIFICE  TO 
THEIR  DEITY — SIGNIFICANCE  OF  THE  DANCE 

THE  Sun  Dance  was  a  great  public  ceremonial 
rite  held  so  sacred  and  so  dear  by  Sioux 
Sun  Worshippers  that  we  know  little  more 
of  its  real  significance  than  of  the  Druid  rites  at 
Stonehenge  that  awed  and  swayed  the  early  Britons, 
less  than  we  know  of  Aztec  Fire  Worship.  It  was  a 
rite  held  but  once  a  year — always  in  the  full  of  a 
spring  moon,  usually  in  June,  when  the  green  grass 
was  well  up  and  the  ponies  fat  and  strong  and  ready 
for  whatever  desperate  foray  the  excitement  of  the 
dance  might  inspire. 

The  last  great  Sun  Dance,  that  assembled  all  of 

the  Ogallalas  or  Lakotah  Sioux,  and  a  third  of  the 

Brules,  and  I  believe  the  last  actual  dance  ever  held, 

occurred  at  Red   Cloud's   Agency  on  White   Clay 

[221] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

Creek  in  Southern  Dakota,  either  in  the  spring  of 
1880  or  1881,  I  cannot  be  certain  which. 

I  had  ridden  over  to  the  Agency  on  a  day's  busi- 
ness, and  just  as  I  was  about  to  saddle  and  start  for 
home,  the  agent,  Dr.  McGillicuddy,  told  me  the  Sun 
Dance  was  about  to  begin,  and  that  it  would  probably 
be  the  last  great  Sun  Dance  the  Sioux  would  ever 
hold ;  that,  in  addition  to  his  ten  thousand  Ogallalas, 
two  thousand  of  Spotted  Tail's  Brules  from  the  Rose- 
bud Agency  had  arrived  to  attend  the  dance,  and 
that  three  army  officers  (Major  John  Bourke  and 
Lieutenants  Waite  and  Goldman)  were  due  that 
evening,  specially  detailed  to  study  and  report  upon 
its  mysteries  and  significance,  and  invited  me  to  re- 
main and  see  the  ceremony,  which  I  was  only  too  glad 
— then — to  do. 

While  worshippers  of  many  different  objects,  un- 
doubtedly the  worship  of  the  sun  as  a  divinity  was 
the  very  keystone  of  the  Sioux's  religion.  Whether 
the  sun  was  held  to  be  Wdkantanka,  or  The  Great 
Spirit,  in  person,  or  whether  the  sun  was  worshipped 
as  most  highly  emblematic  of  Wakantanka,  I  never 
could  learn.  Certain  it  is  that  it  was  to  the  sun  alone 
the  Sioux  warrior  appealed,  by  devout  sacrifice,  fast- 
ing or  feast,  in  his  most  dire  dilemmas  and  when  about 
to  engage  in  his  most  desperate  enterprises. 
[222] 


THE    LAST   GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

And  since  plainly  the  sun  is  all-powerful  to  give  or 
to  deny,  the  maker  of  heat  and  light,  the  giver  of  the 
generous  warmth  and  the  shedder  of  the  copious  tears 
that  makes  the  grass  to  grow  that  fattens  alike  the 
buffalo  and  the  ponies,  and  that,  later,  serves  to 
ripen  the  wild  plum  and  the  sarvis  berry,  the  maize, 
the  gooseberry,  and  the  turnip,  why  indeed  should 
not  Sioux  sufferers  supplicate  his  charity  and  lar- 
gess, and  Sioux  adventurers  into  perils  beseech  his 
aid? 

Of  the  inner  significance  of  the  various  ceremonies 
incident  to  the  dance  we  know  little. 

Certain,  however,  it  is  that  no  cultsman,  civilised 
or  pagan,  ever  bent  before  the  throne  of  his  spiritual 
allegiance  with  more  of  profound  faith  and  reverence, 
or  took  more  pains  to  purify  the  body  by  cleansing 
and  to  exalt  the  spirit  by  fasting  before  supplicating 
and  sacrificing  to  his  deity,  than  did  the  Sioux  Sun 
Dancer. 

Any  could  participate  in  the  Sun  Dance  proper, 
but  few  did.  Motives  for  participation  in  the  last 
extreme  rites  were  various. 

Parents  having  a  child  mortally  ill  often  made  a 
vow  to  Wakantanka  that  if  the  child's  life  were 
spared  they  would  dance  the  next  Sun  Dance. 

A  like  vow  was  made  by  a  warrior  having  a  deadly 
[223] 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   BANCHMAN 

enemy — as  recompense  for  aid  in  safely  putting  the 
enemy  where  he  could  do  no  more  harm. 

Sioux  in  deadly  peril  of  flood  or  famine  so  vowed — 
as  pledge  for  help  to  escape  their  peril. 

Young  bucks  yet  untried  in  war  so  vowed  and 
danced — to  prove  their  courage. 

For  a  year  the  Indian  Bureau  had  been  struggling 
to  destroy  the  tribal  relation  of  these  people,  to  clip 
the  authority  of  the  chiefs,  to  induce  them  to  till  the 
soil  and  build  houses,  and  thus  to  wean  them  from 
their  nomadic  habits  and  teach  them  the  value  of 
peace  and  industry. 

And  that,  in  some  ways,  they  were  not  so  slow  to 
"  catch  on  "  was  proved  effectively  when  Gen.  James 
R.  O'Bierne  came  out  as  the  Special  Agent  of  the  In- 
dian Bureau  and  called  a  council  of  the  chiefs  of  the 
tribe  to  tell  them  what  the  Great  Father  proposed  to 
do  for  them.  After  an  eloquent  eulogy  of  peace  and 
the  comforts  and  prosperity  it  brings,  and  a  grim 
picture  of  the  distresses  entailed  by  war,  he  told  them 
that  to  every  head  of  a  family  who  would  abandon 
his  tepee  and  build  a  house  of  one  room,  the  Great 
Father  would  present  a  cooking  stove,  with  a  heat- 
ing stove  thrown  in  for  a  house  of  two  rooms;  that 
they  would  be  given  waggons,  ploughs,  hoes,  scythes, 
rakes,  etc. 

[  224  ] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

Evidently  the  interpreter  had  translated  "  scythe  " 
as  "  a  knife  that  cuts  grass,"  for  immediately 
O'Bierne  finished,  up  rose  an  old  chief  named  No 
Flesh  and  asked: 

"  What  does  the  chief  say  we  are  to  get?  "  and  the 
interpreter  repeated  the  offer. 

"  You  tell  the  chief  to  tell  the  Great  Father,"  an- 
swered No  Flesh,  "  that  we  don't  want  knives  that 
cut  grass — nothing  the  white  man  has  thrown  aside 
— we  want  waggons  that  cut  grassJ'' 

And  mowing-machines  No  Flesh's  people  got ! 

This  year  the  Sioux  must  dance  and  sacrifice  with 
no  guests  present  but  Spot's  band  of  Brules.  Of  the 
other  guests  from  time  immemorial  usually  bidden  to 
this  ceremony,  the  Omahas  and  Pawnees  were  already 
so  nearly  shut  in  by  and  absorbed  into  the  settle- 
ments to  the  southeast,  that  only  the  memory  lin- 
gered in  the  minds  of  the  elders  of  their  approaching 
cavalcades,  bright  with  glitter  of  arms  and  brilliant 
with  every  colour  of  the  rainbow,  outlined  against  the 
white  walls  of  the  Niobrara  bluffs  or  a  thread  of  many 
colours  winding  through  the  sombre  pines  that  crest- 
ed their  summits ;  while  the  Cheyennes  left  within  the 
United  States  since  Dull  Knife's  last  fight  at  Fort 
Robinson  were  few  and  scattered,  the  Nez  Perce  well- 
nigh  extinct,  and  the  Blackfeet,  Crees,  Mandans,  and 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

Gros  Ventres  were  pressed  back,  within  narrow  reser- 
vation lines,  tight  up  against  the  Canadian  border, 
a  full  moon's  journey  distant. 

The  tepees  of  the  tribe  were  strung  out  for  miles 
along  the  valleys  of  White  Clay  and  Wounded  Knee, 
more  thickly  clustered  into  villages  at  irregular  in- 
tervals about  the  lodge  of  one  or  another  of  the  sub- 
chiefs  that  owned  their  fealty. 

At  twilight  of  this  eventide  criers  were  out  in 
every  village,  with  weightier  news  and  orders  than 
any  their  soft  monotones  had  conveyed  since  the  issu- 
ance of  Sitting  Bull's  call  to  arms  and  to  assembly 
on  the  Little  Big  Horn — criers  who  paused  at  points 
of  vantage  through  the  villages,  called  for  attention 
and  cried  the  stirring  news  that,  by  order  of  Red 
Cloud  and  his  elder  counsellors,  the  time  for  the  Sun 
Dance  had  come,  and  that  on  the  following  morning 
the  entire  tribe  would  assemble  on  the  great  flat  two 
miles  south  of  the  Agency,  and  there  pitch  their 
tepees  in  the  vast  circle  prescribed  by  Sun  Dance  tra- 
ditions. 

The  scene  the  next  morning  was  like  a  savage 
Derby  day.  For  hours,  indeed  throughout  the  live- 
long day,  a  broad  stream  of  primitive  humanity  swept 
past  the  Agency  buildings,  filling  the  valley  from  rim 
to  rim,  en  route  to  Sun  Dance  Flat — as  since  it  has 
[226] 


"Criers  called  the  stirring  news  that  the  time  for  the  Sun  Dance 
had  come" 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

been  known — a  stream  that  ebbed  and  flowed  a  bit 
but  never  stopped  till  the  entire  tribe,  with  all  their 
wealth  of  lodges,  weapons,  implements,  and  domestic 
chattels,  freighted  on  travois  or  on  the  backs  of 
ponies,  had  reached  the  designated  camping  site;  a 
stream  gay  of  temper  as  in  its  colours,  all  keen  for 
the  feasts  and  agog  for  the  excitement  of  the  coming 
ceremony. 

With  the  valley  too  narrow  to  allow  of  a  perfect 
circle  with  so  many  tepees  pitched  close  together  in 
a  single  row,  an  ellipse  was  formed  parallel  with  the 
general  course  of  the  stream,  with  a  length  north 
and  south  of  something  over  a  mile,  and  a  breadth  at 
the  centre  of  nearly  three  quarters  of  a  mile,  with,  at 
the  extreme  north  end,  a  broad  entrance  or  opening 
in  the  otherwise  solid  ellipse  of  the  tepees. 

All  this  work  of  removal  and  arrangement  of  the 
lodges  was  conducted  with  perfect  discipline  under 
the  direction  of  the  chiefs  or  their  lieutenants,  aided 
by  specially  designated  armed  bailiffs  who  were  quick 
to  punish  breaches  of  discipline  or  disobedience  of 
orders  with  no  light  hand. 

A  second  day  was  allowed  for  settling  this  horde 
of  people,  making  place  for  Spot's  Brules,  who  had 
come  in  the  day  before,  correcting  the  tepee  align- 
ment and  restoring  order. 

[227] 


EEMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

On  the  next  day,  the  third,  a  small  band  of  not 
more  than  ten  or  twelve  of  the  most  noted  warriors 
of  the  tribe  were  named  by  the  chiefs  to  go  out  into 
the  hills  and  select  the  WaJikan  (Mystery)  tree,  to 
be  cut  and  used  as  the  Sun  (Centre)  Pole  of  the 
great  Sun  Dance  Tepee  later  to  be  built. 

For  this  emprise  the  participants  decked  them- 
selves as  for  battle,  with  all  the  gauds  of  their  savage 
war  equipment,  mounted  their  best  war  ponies,  and 
then  circled  the  camp,  each  chanting  the  personal 
deeds  that  had  won  him  the  honour  to  make  one  of 
the  Wahkan  tree  hunters. 

And  then  they  rode  out  into  the  hills.  Toward 
evening  they  returned,  and,  having  found  a  satis- 
factory tree,  they  cut  out  a  broad  square  of  sod  near 
the  centre  of  the  camp,  exposing  the  generous  brown 
loam  beneath,  as  the  site  for  the  Sun  Pole — the  cen- 
tre of  the  Sun  Lodge. 

The  doings  on  Sun  Dance  Flat  the  first  and 
second  days  were  told  us,  for  none  of  us  visited 
the  Flat  until  the  third  day — and  then  I  know  at 
least  one  of  the  little  party  was  none  too  glad  he 
had  come. 

The  "  political "  situation  at  the  Agency  was  then 
under  tense  strain.  As  a  part  of  his  efforts  to  stop 
the  Sioux  from  plundering  neighbouring  ranch  horse 
[  228  ] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

herds,  and  to  maintain  better  order  on  the  reserva- 
tion, Dr.  McGillicuddy  had  recently  organised  a 
police  force  of  a  hundred  young  bucks,  and  had  made 
a  magnificent  young  warrior  named  Sword  their  cap- 
tain. Red  Cloud,  and  indeed  the  entire  tribe,  bitterly 
objected  to  the  organisation  of  this  force,  and  had 
threatened  active  hostility  toward  it.  Indeed,  Sword's 
police  had  made  themselves  specially  obnoxious  by 
backing  up  the  doctor  in  his  opposition  to  unreason- 
able demands  by  the  visiting  Brules.  So  it  was  very 
much  of  a  problem  whether  it  would  be  safe  for  us  to 
go  to  the  dance. 

But  when,  the  morning  of  the  third  day.  Dr.  Mc- 
Gillicuddy and  Major  Bourke  discussed  the  wisdom 
of  making  our  contemplated  visit  to  the  dance,  both 
agreed  a  bold  front  was  likely  to  permanently  settle 
the  Brules's  grouch  and  the  Ogallalas'  resentment 
of  the  doctor's  police  organisation,  more  likely  than 
to  stay  tight  at  the  Agency,  and  leave  them  sus- 
picious we  were  afraid  of  them.  Indeed,  any  available 
defences  at  the  Agency  were  so  poor  we  were  as  well 
off  at  one  place  as  another. 

So   two   ambulances   were   soon  brought   and  we 
trotted   off  up   the  creek  toward  the   Sun  Dance, 
Sword's  police  half  ahead  of  and  half  behind  us  in  a 
fairly  well-formed  column  of  twos. 
[  229  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

/  Come  to  the  Sun  Dance  Camp,  the  scene  was  one 

never  to  be  forgotten.  The  camp  lay  on  a  broad,  level 
bench  of  the  valley,  probably  a  mile  and  a  half  long, 
a  green  wall  of  cottonwoods  lining  the  stream  to  the 
west,  while  south  and  east  rose  tall  bluffs  thickly  cov- 
ered with  pines.  The  tepees  were  pitched  in  a  single 
row  to  form  a  vast  ellipsoid,  in  its  breadth  occupy- 
ing the  entire  width  of  the  valley  and  nearly  filling 
it  from  end  to  end.  The  centre  of  the  ellipsoid  was 
entirely  open,  like  the  parade-ground  of  a  big  gar- 
rison. 

Here  were  no  divisions  of  class.  The  tepees  of  the 
rich  and  of  the  poor  hobnobbed  side  by  side — here  a 
magnificent  tall  lodge  covered  with  splendid  buffalo 
robes  painted  with  the  totem  of  the  family,  there  a 
miserable  low  hut  little  better  than  a  temporary 
wickiup,  ill-covered  with  fragments  of  rent  and  worn 
canvas. 

And  in  and  out  among  the  tepees  swarmed  the 
Sioux  host,  a  moving  frame  of  brilliant  colours  en- 
closing the  bright  green  of  the  central  plain,  the 
dark  blue  and  bright  red  of  broadcloth  blankets  and 
leggings,  and  the  golden  yellow  of  buckskin  pre- 
vailing. 

When  well  within  the  circle,  Sword  asked  the  doc- 
tor to  stop  the  ambulances  a  few  minutes.  He  then 
[230] 


THE  LAST  GREAT  SUN  DANCE 

proceeded  to  put  his  police  through  a  mounted  com- 
pany drill  of  no  mean  accuracy,  good  enough  to 
command  the  commendation  of  Major  Bourke  and 
Lieutenants  Waite  and  Goldman. 

The  drill  finished,  and  without  the  least  hint  to  us 
of  his  purpose,  Sword  suddenly  broke  his  cavalry 
formation  and,  at  the  head  of  his  men,  started  a  mad 
charge,  in  disordered  savage  mass,  straight  at  the 
nearest  point  of  the  line  of  tepees  to  the  west;  and, 
come  within  twenty  yards  of  the  line,  reined  to  the 
left  parallel  to  the  line,  and  so  charged  round  the 
entire  circle,  his  men  shouting  their  war-cries  and 
shooting  as  fast  as  they  could  load  and  fire  over  the 
heads  of  their  people,  sometimes  actually  through 
the  tops  of  the  lodges. 

It  was  Sword's  challenge  to  the  tribe !  One  hundred 
challenging  twelve  thousand! 

And  luckily  for  us  all  the  bluff  was  not  called.  The 
tribe  ducked  to  cover  within  their  tepees  like  rabbits 
to  their  warrens. 

Altogether  it  made  about  the  most  uncomfortable 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes  I  ever  passed,  for  we  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  sit  idly  in  our  ambulances,  awaiting 
whatever  row  his  mad  freak  might  stir. 

At  length,  the  circuit  finished.  Sword  drew  up 
proudly  before  us  and  saluted,  his  horses  heav- 
[231] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

ing  of  flank  and  dripping  of  sides,  and  spoke  to 
Changro. 

Then  Louis  interpreted: 

"  Sword  he  say  now  Sioux  be  good  Injun — ^no 
bother  police  any  more!  They  know  they  eat  us  up 
quick,  but  then  Great  Father  send  heap  soldier  eat 
them  up ! !  " 

And  so  it  proved,  for  to  the  performance  of  the 
duties  required  of  the  police  by  the  agent,  there  was 
never  again  active  opposition. 

After  a  quick  turn  about  the  camp  we  drove  back 
to  the  Agency.  Arrived  there,  all  drew  a  deep  breath, 
and  then  drank  deep  to  an  impromptu  toast,  sug- 
gested by  Inspector  Conley  the  moment  his  glass  was 
fiUed: 

"  Here's  to  the  pretty  d d  good  luck  that  we- 

uns  still  wears  our  hair !  " 

The  fourth  morning  we  were  out  at  the  camp 
bright  and  early  and  spent  the  day  there — and  a  busy 
day  indeed  it  proved  for  the  tribe  and  their  visitors. 

At  dawn  of  this  morning  a  tepee  two  or  three 
times  the  size  of  the  largest  ordinarily  used  was  set 
up  within  the  circle,  due  east  of  the  point  chosen  for 
the  Sun  Pole,  and  nearer  to  the  line  of  the  tepees 
than  to  the  pole.  This  was  in  effect  a  great  medi- 
cine lodge,  within  which  all  the  candidates  for  the 
[  232  ] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

dance  were  that  morning  assembled  by  the  medi- 
cine men,  and  therein  kept  closely  secluded,  none 
being  permitted  to  enter  except  certain  designated 
attendants. 

For  the  three  preceding  days  all  the  candidates 
had  been  purifying  themselves  for  the  ceremony  by 
a  very  rigorous  fast  and  an  almost  uninterrupted 
succession  of  sweat-baths. 

Of  nourishment  for  these  days,  and  indeed  through 
the  remaining  four  days  of  the  dance,  the  dancers 
partook  of  little  except  the  frequent  nibbling  of  white 
sage  leaves,  bound  like  wreaths  or  great  bracelets 
about  their  wrists,  and  occasionally  renewed.  The 
floor  of  the  medicine  lodge,  moreover,  was  strewn 
thickly  with  white  sage,  and  indeed  sage  seemed  to 
play  an  important  part  throughout  the  dance,  for 
the  dancers  were  frequently  rubbing  their  breasts 
with  handfuls  of  the  herb,  why,  we  could  only  con- 
jecture— ^perhaps  from  an  exaggerated  value  set 
upon  its  medicinal  virtues. 

Their  sweat-bath  was  as  effective  as  it  was  primi- 
tive. It  was  simply  a  wickiup,  a  low  hut  built  by 
sticking  the  thick  ends  of  brush  or  slender  boughs 
into  the  earth  about  a  circle  six  or  eight  feet  in 
diameter  and  interlacing  their  tops.  This  hive-shaped 
frame  was  thickly  covered  with  buffalo  robes  till 
[  233  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

tight  as  a  drum.  Large,  hot  stones,  heated  in  a  nearby 
fire,  were  rolled  into  the  hut,  the  bathers,  naked,  then 
entered  with  a  vessel  of  water  and  sat  down  about  the 
heated  stones,  while  one  of  their  number  began  dip- 
ping the  "  bush  "  of  a  buffalo  tail  in  the  water  and 
sprinkling  the  stones.  Thus  the  lodge  was  kept 
densely  filled  with  steam,  and  there  the  bathers  sat 
and  took  it  as  long  as  they  could  stand  it,  then  ran 
out  and  plunged  into  and  refreshed  themselves  in  the 
nearest  stream  or  pool  and  resumed  the  steaming 
process. 

About  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  practically  the 
entire  tribe  mounted  and  assembled  outside  the  circle. 
None  were  left  in  the  tepees  except  the  old  and  in- 
firm and  youngsters  too  small  to  ride.  At  a  signal 
from  the  chief  medicine  man,  and  led  by  the  men  who 
had  selected  the  Wahhan  tree,  all  started  at  best 
speed  of  their  ponies  as  mad  a  charge  upon  the  tree 
(a  mile  distant)  as  ever  upon  an  enemy  in  war — up 
a  steep  slope,  across  a  rocky,  timbered  hogback, 
down  into  and  through  a  ravine,  upon  the  farther 
slope  of  which  stood  the  chosen  "  Mystery  Tree." 

About  the  tree  the  tribe  was  soon  so  densely  massed 
that  we  could  see  little  of  ceremonies  that  occupied 
more  than  an  hour. 

Then  the  medicine  men  pressed  the  throng  back 
[234] 


The  Mystery  Tree 


THE  LAST  GREAT  SUN  DANCE 

and  four  young  warriors,  honoured  by  selection  as 
the  fellers  of  the  tree,  approached  the  tree,  and  each 
in  turn  first  proudly  told  the  story  of  his  most  daring 
deeds  in  battle,  and  then  struck  the  tree  one  heavy 
blow  with  an  axe,  each  striking  it  on  the  opposite 
sides  representing  the  four  cardinal  points  of  the 
compass,  the  first  blow  falling,  if  my  memory  rightly 
serves,  on  the  east  side. 

This  done,  a  young  squaw,  held,  we  were  told,  to 
be  of  unblemished  reputation,  dressed  in  a  beautiful 
white  tanned  (unsmoked)  fawn  skin  tunic,  covered 
with  concentric  rows  of  elk  teeth  (these  teeth  then  a 
standard  currency  of  the  tribe,  having  a  value  of  a 
dollar  each),  sprang  forward,  grasped  the  axe,  and 
quickly  finished  the  felling  of  the  tree. 

Next  the  four  men  who  first  struck  the  tree  pro- 
ceeded to  trim  it  neatly  of  all  branches,  until  it  re- 
mained a  graceful  length  of  springy  poplar,  perhaps 
ten  inches  in  diameter  at  the  base.  Then  the  pole  was 
travoised  back  to  camp,  with  greatest  care  not  to 
man-handle  it,  for  to  touch  it  or  even  to  travel  in 
advance  of  it  seemed  either  a  breach  of  the  ritual  or 
an  offence  threatening  heavy  penalty  or  hazard  of 
some  sort. 

Upon  reaching  the  summit  of  a  low  hillock,  near 
and  overlooking  the  Sun  Flat,  the  mass  of  the  tribe 
[235] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

stopped,  and  a  few  elders  advanced  with  the  Sun 
Pole  and  set  it  firmly  in  its  chosen  place. 

Then  ensued  the  wildest  charge  conceivable — all 
the  mounted  warriors  galloping  through  the  broad 
north  entrance  of  the  circle  and  rushing  at  top  speed 
upon  the  Sun  Pole,  until,  under  pressure  of  converg- 
ing lines,  many  horses  and  riders  went  down,  not  a 
few  to  serious  injury.  Finally  out  of  the  heaving, 
struggling,  panting,  bleeding  mass  at  last  a  young 
warrior  was  borne  out  in  honour,  as  having  been  the 
first  to  strike  the  pole. 

The  chiefs  and  their  aides  soon  had  the  rout  un- 
tangled, and  all  were  ordered  to  their  tepees,  save  a 
large  band  (chiefly  squaws),  that  quickly  set  about 
the  erection  of  the  Sun  Dance  Lodge  proper. 

This  lodge  as  built  was  circular  in  form  and,  I 
should  think,  more  than  two  hundred  feet  in  diam- 
eter. Two  rows  of  posts,  forked  at  the  top,  were  set 
about  this  circle  about  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  apart, 
the  outer  posts  probably  eight  feet  high,  the  inner 
about  ten  feet.  The  spaces  between  the  outer  circle 
of  posts  were  then  closely  filled  in  by  sticking  thick 
pine  boughs  in  the  ground,  thus  making  a  tight  en- 
closure, with  no  opening  save  the  main  entrance  on 
its  eastern  side.  Shelter  was  then  furnished  by 
stretching  robes  and  tepee  cloths  above  the  spaces 
[236] 


THE  LAST  GREAT  SUN  DANCE 

between  the  outer  and  inner  posts — and  the  lodge 
was  done,  ready  for  the  next  day's  ceremonies  in  the 
great  central  circle  about  the  Sun  Pole,  open  to  the 
sky,  and  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  diam- 
eter. 

The  next  morning,  the  fifth,  we  reached  the  lodge 
at  dawn  and  found  it  packed  to  overflowing,  the 
dancers  gathered  in  the  central  ring,  naked  above 
the  waist,  but  covered  below  by  red  and  blue  blank- 
ets belted  about  the  loins,  all  wearing  sage  "  wrist- 
lets." 

As  well  as  I  can  remember,  there  were  forty-odd 
dancers,  none  past  middle  life,  a  few  comparative 
youths,  and  one  squaw.  We  were  told  the  squaw  and 
her  husband  were  dancing  as  the  fulfilment  of  a  vow 
to  endure  its  punishment  if  the  life  of  a  sick  child 
were  spared. 

The  space  within  the  lodge  beneath  the  shelter  was 
crowded  with  the  tribe,  all  tricked  out  in  their  bravest 
finery.  Many  of  the  richer  of  the  squaws  were  dressed 
in  golden  yellow  or  snow  white  buck  or  fawn  skin 
tunics,  soft  as  velvet,  falling  half-way  between  knees 
and  feet,  some  of  the  tunics  with  broad  yoke  or  stole- 
shaped  decoration  of  a  solid  mass  of  turquoise  blue 
beads,  edged  with  a  narrow  row  of  red  beads,  and 
some  more  or  less  covered  with  rows  of  elk  teeth — 
[  237  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

some  of  these  latter  representing  hundreds  of  doUars 
in  value,  and  going  to  prove  that  Eve's  daughters 
had  an  inconvenient  knack  of  making  themselves  a 
most  extravagant  luxury  long  before  the  first  modiste 
wrought  in  silks,  laces,  and  velvets.  The  brilHant 
colours  and  rich  bead-work  of  the  men's  costumes 
and  the  barbaric  magnificence  of  their  feathered  war 
bonnets  are  too  well  known  to  take  space  here. 

There  was  one  costume,  however,  that  deserves 
mention,  as  does  also  the  wearer.  Little  Big  Man,  the 
proudest  of  them  all,  who,  while  owning  a  scant  five 
feet  in  height,  had  the  breadth  and  depth  of  chest, 
and  length  and  power  of  arms  of  a  giant,  and  who 
had  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  most  desperate 
and  ruthless  warriors  of  the  tribe.  Some  one  had  pre- 
sented him,  or  perhaps,  indeed,  he  had  won  in  the 
Custer  fight,  a  captain's  blouse,  in  very  good  condi- 
tion, and  just  as  we  entered  the  lodge.  Little  Big 
Man,  proudly  wearing  this  uniform  coat,  fell  in  be- 
hind us.  Camp  stools  had  been  brought  for  Mrs.  Mc- 
Gillicuddy  and  Mrs.  Blanchard,  the  trader's  wife,  and 
when  they  were  seated  at  the  inner  edge  of  the  circle 
and  we  grouped  near  them,  Little  Big  Man  squatted 
upon  the  ground  beside  them,  evidently  bent  upon 
winning  their  admiration.  Presently,  apparently 
thinking  he  was  not  creating  the  sensation  justly 
[  238  ] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

his  due,  he  rose,  unbuttoned,  and  removed  his  blouse, 
and  so  stood  beside  them,  completely  naked  to  the 
waist,  his  broad  breast  and  great,  sinewy  arms  show- 
ing a  dozen  or  more  scars  of  deadly  tussles  in  which, 
to  be  here  alive,  he  must  have  bested  the  enemy,  each 
scar  emphasised  by  a  dab  of  red  paint  streaming  like 
blood  beneath  it.  After  himself  alternately  admiring 
these  scars  and  looking  to  the  ladies  for  approval,  he 
gravely  resumed  his  blouse  and  his  seat. 

And  then  a  funny  thing  happened.  Scarcely  was  he 
seated,  when  a  tall,  handsome  young  squaw  stepped 
in  front  of  him,  bent  quickly,  and  scooped  up  a  double 
handful  of  sand  and  threw  it  in  his  face.  Instantly  he 
pulled  a  six-shooter  and  fired  to  kill  her,  but,  blinded 
by  the  sand  and  his  arm  knocked  up  by  another  In- 
dian, the  ball  flew  high  above  the  heads  of  all — and 
then  for  five  minutes  the  lodge  rang  with  such  peals 
of  derisive  laughter  that  Little  Big  Man  slunk  away 
into  the  crowd  and  was  not  seen  by  us  again  at  the 
Sun  Dance. 

Changro  explained  the  cause  of  the  incident  lay  in 
Little  Big  Man's  evil  tongue,  that  in  camp  gossip 
the  night  before  he  had  besmirched  this  young 
woman's  character,  and  that  she  thus  took  the  first 
opportunity  to  give  him  the  lie  in  the  good  old  tribal 
way. 

[  239  ] 


KEMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

Just  as  the  sun  rose  above  the  horizon,  the  dance 
in  his  honour  began. 

The  dancers  were  ranged  in  separate  rows,  eight 
or  ten  dancers  to  the  row.  They  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  facing  east,  a  little  wooden  whistle  in  the 
mouth  of  each. 

At  the  boom  of  a  great  medicine  tomtom,  each  ex- 
tended his  arms  forward  and  upward  toward  the  sun, 
hands  open  and  palms  turned  outward,  bent  slightly 
at  the  knee,  and  began  a  slow  but  steady  rising  on  the 
ball  of  the  foot  and  dropping  back  on  the  heels,  which 
was  the  only  movement  of  the  "  dance  "  proper,  his 
eyes  gazing  unblinkingly  upon  the  sun,  a  pipe  of  each 
whistle  accompanying  each  "  step "  of  the  dance. 
And  so  they  whistled  and  gazed  and  danced  for  hours, 
and  days  indeed,  till  noon  of  the  third  succeeding 
day,  their  arms  occasionally  rested  by  dropping  them 
to  the  sides,  their  eyes  by  a  medicine  man  standing 
behind  each  row  holding  inclined  forward  above  their 
heads  a  long  wand,  from  the  top  of  which  a  small 
feather  dangled  at  the  end  of  a  long  string,  and  as 
the  feather  was  blown  about  by  the  wind,  each  dancer 
closely  followed  its  every  shift  by  movement  of  head 
and  eyes. 

Only  at  long  intervals,  and  when  exhausted  well 
nigh  to  the  point  of  falling  in  their  tracks,  were  the 
[240] 


THE  LAST  GREAT  SUN  DANCE 

ranks  broken  and  the  dancers  given  a  brief  rest,  a 
mouthful  of  broth,  and  fresh  sage  armlets. 

Throughout  this  dance  no  word  was  spoken  to  or 
by  the  dancers,  as  far  as  we  could  see ;  they  were  left 
to  rapt  mental  concentration  upon  the  subject  of 
whatever  vow  or  prayer  had  moved  them  to  this  sacri- 
fice to  their  deity. 

Throughout  the  continuation  of  the  Sun  Dance 
proper,  which  was  largely  confined  to  the  south  side 
of  the  great  central  ring,  an  endless  succession  of 
other  ceremonies  was  going  on,  some  of  which  are 
still  clear  to  me,  but  many  of  which  I  no  longer  can 
recall. 

About  noon  of  this  day  the  "  Buffalo  Dance  "  be- 
gan, and  lasted  through  the  better  part  of  the  after- 
noon. Bar  a  great  herd  of  several  thousand  buffalo 
then  still  ranging  far  to  the  northwest  of  the  Black 
Hills,  this  magnificent  animal,  which  for  generations 
had  furnished  the  tribe  their  most  highly  prized  food 
and  clothing  supply,  had  forever  disappeared  from 
the  plains,  fallen  before  the  mercenary  rifles  of  white 
robe  hunters,  who  took  pelts  by  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands, and  left  carcasses  to  rot  and  bones  to  whiten 
where  their  quarry  fell.  That  they  were  all  dead  and 
gone  and  disappeared  for  good  and  all,  no  Sioux 
could  then  be  made  to  believe;  for  had  they  not 
[241] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

always  found  them  migratory  as  were  they  them- 
selves, had  not  their  ancestors  long  generations  back 
travoised  westward  from  the  very  foothills  of  the 
Appalachians,  following  the  slow  drift  of  the  buf- 
falo toward  the  setting  sun?  Often,  to  be  sure,  they 
disappeared  from  some  favourite  camp  site,  like  the 
French  Lick,  but  never  more  than  a  few  days'  jour- 
ney was  needed  to  locate  untold  thousands  of  these 
great  black  beauties,  comfortably  settled  on  fresh 
range. 

Apparently  this  dance  was  an  appeal  for  a  return 
of  the  prolific  herds. 

It  was  opened  by  a  long  invocation,  addressed  ap- 
parently to  the  sun  by  an  aged  medicine  man.  Then 
he  attached  to  a  rope  hanging  from  the  top  of  the 
Wdhkan  pole  first  the  figure  of  a  man,  about  eigh- 
teen inches  in  length,  and  beneath  it  the  figure  of  a 
buffalo  bull,  each  cut  out  of  pieces  of  rawhide.  These 
figures  were  fashioned  with  extraordinary  fidelity  to 
every  detail  of  every  outline  of  man  and  animal,  and, 
indeed,  were  startlingly  complete.  When  so  attached, 
these  figures  remained  swinging  about  fifteen  feet 
above  the  ground.  Next,  heralded  by  the  low-toned, 
booming  notes  of  the  tomtom,  entered  at  a  sharp 
trot  a  chief,  mounted,  at  the  head  of  forty  or  fifty 
dismounted  warriors,  all  stripped  and  painted  as  for 
[242] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

war,  each  armed  with  rifle  or  pistol,  and  circled  three 
times  around  the  pole  from  left  to  right,  who,  as  they 
ran,  loaded  and  fired  as  rapidly  as  possible  at  the  pen- 
dent figures,  chanting  as  they  ran.  The  third  circuit 
finished,  the  chief  led  his  men  to  the  west  of  the  ring 
and  grouped  them  facing  the  pole. 

Thereafter  in  rapid  succession  so  entered,  ran, 
shot,  and  chanted  other  squads,  until  probably  five 
hundred  warriors  were  so  assembled.  By  this  time 
both  figures  were  bullet-riddled,  but  still  hanging 
where  first  placed. 

Then  the  entire  band,  made  up  of  the  several 
squads,  started  trotting  about  the  pole,  massed  so 
closely  about  it  that  many  were  firing  practically 
straight  up  in  the  air,  so  straight  it  was  simply  a 
miracle  that  none  in  or  about  the  lodge  were  killed 
or  hurt  by  the  actual  rain  of  bullets  certainly  falling 
near  about  us.  Really,  one  might  almost  as  well  have 
been  under  direct  fire. 

"  Boys,"  called  Conley,  hunching  his  head  down 
deep  between  his  shoulders,  "  I  surely  neve'  had  no 
use  fer  them  slickers  on  top  o'  a  stick  tenderfeet 
holds  over  their  haids  in  a  rain,  but  if  they've  got 
airy  one  g'aranteed  bum-proof,  mama!  but  wouldn't 
she  come  handy  now !  An'  th'  hell  of  it  is  if  airy  one 
o'  us  gets  winged,  we  won't  know  which  o'  them  lead 
[243] 


EEMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

rain-makers  we  ought  to  kill !  Wish  we  was  all  prairie 
dogs  an'  close  to  ou'  holes ! " 

Sentiments  I  am  certain  every  one  of  us  cordially 
echoed,  for  during  the  hour  or  more  this  Buffalo 
Dance  lasted,  there  was  scarcely  a  moment  we  were 
not  directly  threatened  with  the  receipt  of  a  heavier 
load  of  lead  than  we  could  walk  off  with. 

Finally,  when  a  ball  cut  the  rope  between  man  and 
buffalo,  and  the  latter  fell  to  the  ground,  instantly 
the  dance  ceased,  and  a  warrior  was  seized  and  borne 
aloft  in  honour  from  the  ring,  apparently  as  the  pot- 
ter of  the  buffalo,  though  however  they  could  tell 
whose  shot  brought  down  the  image  was  past  under- 
standing. 

Toward  evening  we  all  drove  back  to  the  Agency 
for  supper. 

About  nine  o'clock  Conley,  Changro,  and  I  rode 
back  to  the  Sun  Dance,  and  there  remained  through- 
out the  night ;  and  there,  too,  in  and  about  the  lodge, 
stayed  the  entire  tribe,  feasting  on  stewed  dog  and 
coffee,  stuffing  themselves  hour  after  hour  to  a  sur- 
feit none  but  a  savage  could  stand,  discussing  the 
ceremony,  boasting  how  well  some  kinsman  dancer 
was  enduring  his  fast  and  dance,  and  betting  that  he 
would  honourably  acquit  himself  in  the  final  torture 
of  the  "  tie-up  "  to  the  Sun  Pole,  yarned,  laughed, 
[  244  ] 


THE    LAST   GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

and  amused  themselves  as  did  the  old  Roman  audi- 
ence while  slippery,  dark  red  patches  in  the  arena 
were  being  sprinkled  with  sand,  in  preparation  for 
the  entry  of  the  next  group  of  gladiators. 

And  throughout  the  slow-dragging  hours  of  the 
night  the  dance  went  on,  with  few  brief  intervals  of 
rest,  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  feeble  whistles 
keeping  time  to  the  pad-pad,  pad-pad  of  dropping 
heels,  the  eyes  of  every  dancer  fixed  fast  upon  the 
moon — for,  as  sister  to  the  sun,  she  next  to  him  held 
their  reverence. 

As  for  ourselves,  little  attention  was  paid  to  us  by 
the  Sioux — a  few  were  surly,  but  most  indifferent. 

To  us  the  scene  was  weird  and  awful  past  adequate 
description. 

In  the  central  ring,  dimly  lighted  by  the  moon 
and  stars,  the  thin,  wasted,  haggard  forms  of  the 
fasting  dancers  looked  like  pale  ghosts  of  demons, 
prey-hunting  in  a  spirit  land. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  shelter,  half  lighted  by 
many  little  camp  fires  over  which  dogs  were  stewing, 
beef  roasting,  and  coffee  boiling,  the  tribe  was  gath- 
ered, grouped  closest  about  the  fires,  whose  flickering 
flames  tinted  the  bronze  of  the  savage  Sioux  faces  to 
such  a  sinister  shade  of  red  as  made  the  merriest  of 
them  something  to  shudder  at. 
[245] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

The  following  day  was  almost  wholly  given  up — 
in  so  far  as  the  side  ceremonies  were  concerned — to  a 
rite  nearly  akin  to,  if  not  identical  with,  Christian 
baptism.  Babies  born  within  the  year  were  brought 
by  their  fathers  and  mothers  to  an  old  medicine  man, 
who,  taking  each  child  in  turn,  held  it  up  toward  the 
sun,  and  then  laid  it  at  the  foot  of  the  Sun  Pole. 
Next  he  drew  a  narrow-bladed  knife,  extended  its 
point  first  east,  next  west,  then  north  and  south,  and 
then  proceeded  to  pierce  the  child's  ears.  This  fin- 
ished, and  the  child  restored  to  its  mother,  a  grand- 
father or  father  of  the  family  made  an  address,  in 
which  he  besought  for  the  child  the  friendship  of  the 
tribe  and  their  best  wishes  for  its  health,  for  its  suc- 
cess in  chase  and  war  if  a  man  child,  for  its  happy 
marriage  if  a  girl,  ending  by  humbly  begging  the 
poor  of  the  tribe  to  come  and  receive  as  free  gifts  all 
the  largess  the  family  were  able  to  bestow,  a  char- 
itable offering  or  sacrifice  in  behalf  of  favour  for 
the  child. 

While  the  address  was  in  progress,  the  squaws  were 
piling  near  the  pole  all  the  goods  the  family  could 
afford,  and,  in  the  cases  of  several  exceptionally  fond 
parents,  evidently  far  more  than  they  could  afford — 
yards  of  blue  and  red  broadcloth,  calicoes,  moccasins, 
tunics,  leggings,  some  newly  made  for  this  offering, 
[246] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

some  taken  then  and  there  from  the  wearers'  persons, 
provisions,  parfleches,  saddles,  and  a  few  arms.  One 
loving  mother,  a  really  beautiful  young  squaw, 
stripped  off  and  added  to  her  pile  a  superb  fawn  skin 
tunic,  ornamented  with  not  less  than  two  or  three 
hundred  elk  teeth  worth  a  dollar  apiece. 

Many  added  one  or  more  horses  to  their  offering. 
I  remember  Trader  Blanchard  told  me  that  the  week 
before  the  Sun  Dance  he  sold  sixty  thousand  yards 
of  various  cloths,  besides  many  other  goods,  for  offer- 
ings at  this  dance! 

The  elder's  speech  finished  and  the  gifts  gathered, 
a  stampede  and  greedy  scramble  for  this  wealth  en- 
sued, in  which  it  seemed  to  me  rich  vied  with  poor  for 
the  prizes.  But  it  was  a  good-natured  struggle — the 
first  to  lay  hands  on  was  the  one  to  have — and  there 
was  little  of  first  right  disputing.  The  horse  gifts 
made  no  end  of  fun,  for  they  were  turned  loose  in  the 
ring  without  even  a  bit  of  rope  on,  and  not  a  few  were 
unbroken  broncos,  resentful  of  man-handling,  and  yet 
only  to  be  taken  by  coup  de  main.  Young  bucks  lit 
all  over  each  offered  horse  like  flies,  only  to  be  kicked 
or  tossed  galley  west,  until  at  length  some  lucky  one 
got  a  stout  grip  on  mane  with  one  hand  and  nostrils 
with  the  other,  thus  choking  the  struggling  prize  to 
surrender. 

[  S47  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

At  noon  of  the  succeeding  day  the  hour  of  supreme 
sacrificial  trial  had  arrived  for  all  who  had  vowed  to 
undergo  it — the  "  tieing  up  "  to  the  Sun  Pole — of 
whom,  according  to  my  recollection,  there  were  only 
nine,  and  it  found  them  wan,  thin,  and  exhausted  of 
body,  but  still  strong  of  spirit. 

Four-plait  rawhide  ropes  hung  from  the  top  of  the 
pole,  the  lower  half  of  each  unbraided  and  twisted 
into  two  strands,  a  loop  at  the  end  of  each. 

Each  candidate  in  turn  was  laid  at  the  foot  of 
the  Sun  Pole.  The  chief  medicine  man  then  drew  his 
narrow-bladed  knife,  extended  it  toward  each  of  the 
four  cardinal  points  of  the  compass,  bent  over  the 
candidate,  and  passed  the  blade  beneath  and  through 
a  narrow  strip  of  flesh  on  each  breast,  the  puncture 
being  scarcely  more  than  a  half-inch  in  breadth,  stuck 
a  stout,  hardwood  skewer  through  each  of  the  two 
openings  so  made,  and,  lastly,  looped  each  of  the  two 
ends  of  one  of  the  hanging  ropes  over  each  of  the 
two  skewers — torture  the  candidates  endured  without 
plaint  or  the  flinching  of  a  muscle. 

This  finished,  the  candidate  was  helped  to  his  feet 
and  given  a  long,  stout  staff — to  help  him  in  his  ter- 
rible task  of  rending  his  own  flesh  till  the  skewers  were 
torn  from  their  lodgment  in  his  breast! 

Some  pulled  slowly  but  steadily  and  strongly  back- 
[248] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

ward,  aided  by  their  staffs,  until  the  skin  of  their 
breasts  was  drawn  out  eighteen  inches,  while  that  of 
their  backs  was  tight  as  a  drum  head.  Others  jumped 
and  bucked  on  their  ropes  like  a  bronco  suffering  the 
indignity  of  his  first  saddle. 

Yet  no  cry  escaped  their  lips ;  no  eye  showed  pain ! 

On  they  struggled,  and  yet  on,  blood  flowing  freely 
from  their  wounds,  until  worn  nature  could  do  no 
more,  and  one  after  another  fell  fainting  on  his 
leash ! 

To  fail  of  breaking  loose  was  a  lasting  disgrace, 
only  to  be  partially  redeemed  by  heavy  presents  to 
the  tribe.  And  thus  it  happened  that  as  each  fell  his 
nearest  and  dearest  ran  up  and  fiercely  beat  and 
kicked  him  to  rouse  him  to  new  effort. 

The  spirit  and  courage  to  break  loose  all  had,  but 
only  one  still  owned  store  of  strength  sufScient  for 
the  awful  task. 

After  struggling  until  so  weak  they  could  no 
longer  be  made  to  rise,  eight  were  bought  off  by 
presents,  and  their  skewers  cut  loose  by  the  medicine 
man. 

The  ninth  man,  the  husband,  by  the  way,  of  the 

one  squaw  dancer,  after  repeatedly  falling  in  a  faint, 

at  last  roused  himself,  cast  aside  his  staff,  staggered 

up  to  the  pole,  and,  commanding  every  last  remaining 

[249] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

grain  of  strength,  bounded  violently  away  from  the 
pole,  bounded  with  such  force  that  his  body  swung 
on  the  rope  free  of  the  ground  so  hard  that  when  he 
again  hit  the  ground  he  was  free  of  the  rope!  A 
plucky  and  a  strong  one  indeed  was  he — tied  to  the 
pole  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half ! 

And  this  man's  squaw  was  well  worthy  of  her  lord, 
for,  while  not  herself  tied  up,  she  submitted  herself 
to  sacrificial  torture,  in  the  severe  scarifying  of  her 
arms,  undertaken  by  none  of  her  fellow  dancers ! 

Thus  was  the  vow  of  this  brave  pair  honestly  and 
dearly  paid. 

So  sacrificed  the  Sioux  to  the  sun,  as  the  chief  of 
their  many  deities. 

While  we  know  little  enough  of  the  details  of  their 
cult,  we  know  much  to  their  credit,  socially  and  mor- 
ally, they  certainly  owed  to  it:  we  know  it  for  a  re- 
ligion broad  enough  in  scope,  sound  enough  in  ethics, 
and  strong  enough  in  its  hold  upon  its  adherents  to 
have  made  them  a  "  good  "  people  as  we  first  found 
them;  a  kindly,  loving  people  among  their  own  kith 
and  kin ;  a  charitable  people,  always  free  givers  to  the 
poor,  and  generous  helpers  of  any  in  distress,  whether 
of  their  own  or  of  hostile  blood;  a  truthful  people 
that  hated  a  forked  tongue,  to  whom  it  was  harder  to 
lie  than  for  the  average  "  Christian  "  to  tell  the  truth ; 
[  250  ] 


THE    LAST    GREAT    SUN    DANCE 

a  race  of  virtuous,  honest  wives  and  devoted  mothers ; 
a  race  of  iron-hearted  men  that  condemned  to  a  Hfe 
at  the  most  menial  tasks  any  guilty  of  poltroonery ; 
a  race  that  never  stole,  except  as  they  took  spoils, 
won  in  the  manly  game  of  war  at  hazard  of  their 
lives ;  a  race  lofty  in  its  thought  and  eloquent  in  its 
expression;  a  race  of  stoics  that  bore  most  terrible 
pain  with  all  the  patient  fortitude  ever  shown  under 
torture  by  the  most  heroic  Christian  martyr ;  happy 
fatalists  who  went  chanting  to  their  death,  placid  in 
the  certainty  of  their  conviction  of  enjoying  immor- 
tality in  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds  of  the  Great 
Spirit. 

Surely,  in  the  light  of  such  results,  a  religion 
worth  owning  and  a  deity  worth  praying  to,  let 
whomsoever  may  sneer  at  it  as  pagan ! 

And  why  not  the  sun  as  deity?  Why  not  the  one 
supreme  potentiality  of  all  nature,  that,  obviously 
alike  to  savage  and  to  sage,  holds  the  means  to  make 
or  mar  our  destinies  ?  Why  not  the  sun,  the  very  key- 
stone to  the  great  cosmic  work  of  the  Creator? 

Who  that  has  revelled  and  bathed  in  the  sun's  warm 
rays  and  shivered  under  cloud,  that  has  observed 
earth's  generous  largess  when  kissed  by  sunlight  and 
her  chill  poverty  when  the  sun  long  denies  himself, 
can  offensively  cry  pagan  of  a  sun  worshipper? 
[251] 


CHAPTER    TEN 
END  OF  THE  TRAIL  (COWBOY  LOGIC  AND  FROLIC) 

WE  were  jogging  along  in  the  saddle 
across  the  divide  between  the  Rawhide 
and  the  Niobrara,  Concho  Curly  and 
I,  en  route  from  Cheyenne  to  the  ranch  to  begin 
the  spring  calf  round-up. 

Travelling  the  lower  trail,  we  had  slept  out  on 
our  saddle-blankets  the  night  before,  beside  the  sod- 
den wreck  of  a  fire  in  a  little  cottonwood  grove  on 
Rawhide. 

While  the  night  there  passed  was  wretched  and 
comfortless  to  the  last  degree,  for  even  our  slickers 
were  an  insufficient  protection  against  the  torrents 
of  warm  rain  that  fell  upon  us  hour  after  hour,  the 
curtain  of  gray  morning  mists  that  hedged  us  round 
about  was  scarce  lifted  at  bidding  of  the  new  day's 
sun,  before  eyes,  ears,  and  nostrils  told  us  Nature 
had  wrought  one  of  her  great  miracles  while  we  slept. 

All  seed  life,  somnolent  so  long  in  whatever  earthly 
cells  the  winds  and  rains  had  assisted  to  entomb  it, 
[  252  ] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

had  awakened  and  arisen  into  a  living  force;  tree 
vitality,  long  hibernating  invisible,  even  in  sorely 
wounded,  lightning-riven,  gray  cottonwood  torsos, 
was  asserting  itself;  voices  long  still,  absent  God 
alone  knows  where,  were  gladly  hailing  the  return 
of  the  spring. 

We  had  lain  down  In  a  dull  gray  dead  world,  to 
awaken  in  a  world  pulsing  with  the  life  and  bright 
with  the  colour  of  sprouting  seed  and  revivifying 
sap. 

Our  eyes  had  closed  on  tree  trunks  gaunt  and 
pale,  a  veritable  spectral  wood;  on  wide  stretches  of 
buffalo  grass,  withered  yellow  and  prone  upon  the 
ground,  the  funereal  aspect  of  the  land  heightened 
by  the  grim  outlines  of  two  Sioux  warriors  lashed 
on  pole  platforms  for  their  last  resting-place  in 
the  branches  above  our  heads,  fragments  of  a  faded 
red  blanket  pendent  and  flapping  in  the  wind  be- 
neath one  body,  a  blue  blanket  beneath  the  other, 
grisly  neighbours  who  appeared  to  approach  or  re- 
cede as  our  fire  alternately  blazed  and  flickered — 
both  plainly  warriors,  for  beneath  each  lay  the  whit- 
ening bones  of  his  favourite  war  pony,  killed  by  his 
tribesmen  to  provide  him  a  mount  in  the  Spirit 
Land. 

It  was  a  voiceless,  soundless  night  before  the  storm 
[253] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

came,  bar  the  soughing  of  the  wind,  the  weary 
creaking  of  bare  branches,  the  feeble  murmur  of  the 
brook  (drunk  almost  dry  by  the  thirsty  land),  and 
the  flap-flap  of  our  neighbours'  last  raiment. 

Our  eyes  opened  upon  trees  crowned  with  the  pale 
green  glory  of  bursting  buds,  upon  valley  and  hill 
slopes  verdant  as  the  richest  meadow;  our  ears  were 
greeted  with  the  sweet  voices  of  birds  chanting  a 
welcome  to  the  spring,  and  the  rollicking  song  of 
a  brimful  stream,  merry  over  the  largess  it  now  bore 
for  man  and  beast  and  bird  and  plant,  while  the 
sweet,  humid  scents  of  animate,  palpitant  nature  had 
driven  from  our  nostrils  the  dry,  horrid  odours  of 
the  dead. 

So  comes  the  spring  on  the  plains — in  a  single 
night ! 

Concho  Curly  was  a  raw,  unlettered,  freckled 
product  of  a  Texas  pioneer's  cabin  isolated  in 
a  nook  of  the  west  slope  of  the  hills  about  the 
head  of  the  Concho  River,  near  where  they  pitch 
down  to  the  waterless,  arid  reaches  of  the  staked 
plains. 

But  the  miracle  of  the  spring,  appealing  to  the 
universal  love  of  the  mysterious,  had  set  even  Curly's 
untrained  brain  questioning  and  philosophising. 

After  riding  an  hour  or  more  silent,  his  chin 
[^54] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

buried  in  the  loose  folds  of  his  neckerchief,  Curly 
sighed  deeply  and  then  observed: 

"  01'  man,  hit  shore  'pears  to  me  01'  Mahster 
hain't  never  strained  Hisself  none  serious  tryin'  to 
divide  up  even  the  good  things  o'  this  yere  world 
o'  oum.  Looks  like  He  never  tried  none,  an'  ef  He 
did.  He's  shore  made  a  pow'ful  pore  job!" 

"  Why,  Curly,"  I  asked,  "  what  makes  you  think 
so?" 

"  Some  fellers  has  so  dod-blamed  much  an'  some 
so  dod-bumed  little,"  he  repHed.  "  Why,  back  whar 
you-all  comes  from,  thar's  oodles  o'  grass  an'  fodder 
an'  water  the  hull  year,  ain't  they,  while  out  here 
frequent  hit's  so  fur  from  grass  to  water  th'  critters 
goes  hungry  to  drink  an'  dry  to  graze — don't  they?  " 

"  Quite  true,  Curly,"  I  admitted. 

"Wall,  back  thar,  then,  'most  every  feller  must 
be  rich,  an'  have  buggies  an'  ambulances  plenty,  an' 
a  big  gallery  round  his  jacal,  an'  nothin'  to  do  but 
set  on  her  all  day  studdyin'  what  new  bunch  o' 
prittys  he'U  buy  for  his  woman,  an'  wettin'  his 
whistle  frequent  with  rot-gut  to  he'p  his  thinker 
select  new  kinds  o'  throat-ticklin'  grub  to  feed  his 
face  an'  new  kinds  o'  humany  quilts  an'  goose-hair 
pillers  to  git  to  lay  on,  while  out  here  a  hull  passle 
o'  fellers  is  so  dod-bumed  pore  they  don't  even  own 
1255} 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

a  name,  an'  hull  families  lives  'n'  dies  'thout  ever 
gittin'  to  set  in  a  buggy  or  to  eat  anythin'  but  co'n 
pone  an'  sow  beUy,  'thout  no  fixin's  or  dulces  to 
chase  them,  like  th'  puddin's  an'  ice  cream  you  gits 
to  town  ef  you've  got  th'  spondulix  an'  are  willin' 
to  blow  yourse'f  reckless. 

"  On  th'  level,  you  cain't  make  me  believe  01' 
Mahster  had  anythin'  to  do  with  th'  makin'  o'  these 
yere  parts  out  yere — ef  He  had,  He'd  a  shore  give 
us  fellers  a  squarer  deal;  'pears  to  me  like  when 
His  job  was  nigh  done  an'  he  was  sorta  tired  an' 
restin',  the  boys  musta  got  loose  an'  throwed  this 
part  o'  th'  country  together,  kinda  careless-like, 
outen  th'  leavin's." 

And  on  and  on  he  monologued,  plucking  an  occa- 
sional "  yes  "  or  "  no  "  from  me,  till  apparently  a 
new  line  of  reflection  diverted  him  and  he  fell  silent 
to  study  where  it  might  lead  him. 

Presently,  when  I  was  lolling  comfortably  in  the 
saddle,  half  dozing,  he  nudged  me  in  the  ribs  with 
the  butt  of  his  quirt  and  remarked: 

"  Say,  ol'  man !  I  reckon  I  musta  been  sleep-walk- 
in'  an'  eatin'  loco  weed,  for  I  been  arguin'  plumb 
wrong. 

"  Come  to  think  o'  hit,  while  we-all  that's  pore 
has  to  work  outrageous  to  make  a  skimp  of  a  livin', 
[  256  ] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

you-all  that's  rich  has  to  work  a  scandalous  sight 
harder  to  git  to  keep  what  you  got. 

"  An'  then  there's  ice !  Jest  think  o'  ice !  Th'  rich 
has  her  in  th'  summer,  but  d — n  me  ef  th'  pore  don't 
get  her  in  th'  winter,  good  an'  plenty — makin'  hit 
look  like  th'  good  things  o'  this  world  is  whacked 
up  mighty  nigh  even,  after  all,  an'  that  we-all  hain't 
got  no  roar  comin'  to  us." 

Thus  happily  settled  his  recent  worries.  Curly 
himself  dropped  off  into  a  contented  doze,  and  left 
me  to  resume  mine. 

The  season  opening  promised  to  be  an  unusually 
busy  one.  It  was  obvious  we  were  nearing  the  crest 
of  a  three-years'  boom.  Wild  range  cattle  were  sell- 
ing at  higher  prices  than  ever  before  or  since.  The 
Chicago  beef-market  was  correspondingly  strong. 
But  there  were  signs  of  a  reaction  that  made  me 
anxious  to  gather  and  ship  my  fat  beeves  soon  as 
possible,  before  the  tide  turned. 

Every  winter  two  thirds  of  my  herd  drifted  be- 
fore the  bitter  blizzards  southeast  into  the  sand 
hills  lying  between  the  sink  of  Snake  Creek  and  the 
head  of  the  Blue,  a  splendid  winter  range  where  snow 
never  lay  long,  and  out  of  which  cattle  came  in  the 
spring  in  unusually  good  condition. 

Thus,  at  the  end  of  the  spring  round-up,  I  was 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

able  to  cut  fifteen  hundred  beef  steers  that,  after 
being  grazed  under  close  herd  a  few  weeks  on  the 
better-cured,  stronger  feed  on  the  divide  between  the 
Niobrara  and  Snake  Creek,  were  fit  for  market,  and 
with  them  we  arrived  at  our  shipping  point — Ogal- 
lala— July  2,  1882. 

Leaving  the  outfit  camped,  luckily,  on  a  bench 
twenty  feet  above  the  main  valley  of  the  Platte,  I 
rode  two  miles  into  town  to  make  shipping  arrange- 
ments. 

A  wonderful  sight  was  the  Platte  Valley  about 
Ogallala  in  those  days,  for  it  was  the  northern 
terminus  of  the  great  Texas  trail  of  the  late 
'70s  and  early  '80s,  where  trail-drivers  brought 
their  herds  to  sell  and  northern  ranchmen  came  to 
bargain. 

That  day,  far  as  the  eye  could  see  up,  down,  and 
across  the  broad,  level  valley  were  cattle  by  the  thou- 
sand— thirty  or  forty  thousand  at  least — a  dozen  or 
more  separate  outfits,  grazing  in  loose,  open  order 
so  near  each  other  that,  at  a  distance,  the  valley 
appeared  carpeted  with  a  vast  Persian  rug  of  in- 
tricate design  and  infinite  variety  of  colours. 

Approached  nearer,  where  individual  riders  and 
cattle  began  to  take  form,  it  was  a  topsy-turvy 
scene  I  looked  down  upon. 

[  258  ] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

The  day  was  unusually,  tremendously  hot — prob- 
ably 112°  in  the  shade — so  hot  the  shimmering  heat- 
waves developed  a  mirage  that  turned  town,  herds, 
and  riders  upside  down — all  sprung  in  an  instant 
to  gigantic  height,  the  squat  frame  houses  tall  as 
modern  skyscrapers,  cattle  and  riders  big  as  ele- 
phants, while  here  and  there  deep  blue  lakes  lay 
placidly  over  broad  expanses  that  a  few  moments 
before  were  a  solid  field  of  variegated,  brilliant 
colours. 

Arrived  at  the  Spofford  House,  the  one  hotel  of 
the  town,  I  found  a  familiar  bunch  of  famous  Texas 
cattle  kings — Seth  Mayberry,  Shanghai  Pierce, 
Dillon  Fant,  Jim  Ellison,  John  Lytle,  Dave  Hun- 
ter, Jess  Presnall,  etc. — each  with  a  string  of  long 
horns  for  sale. 

The  one  store  and  the  score  of  saloons,  dance- 
halls,  and  gambling  joints  that  lined  up  south  of 
the  railway  track  and  formed  the  only  street  Ogal- 
lala  could  boast,  were  packed  with  wild  and  woolly, 
long-haired  and  bearded,  rent  and  dusty,  lusting  and 
thirsty,  red-sashed  brush-splitters  in  from  the  trail 
outfits  for  a  frolic. 

And  every  now  and  then  a  chorus  of  wild,  shrill 
yells  and  a  fusillade  of  shots  rent  the  air  that  would 
make  a  tenderfoot  think  a  battle-royal  was  on. 
[259] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

But  there  was  nothing  serious  doing,  then ;  it  was 
only  cowboy  frolic. 

The  afternoon's  fierce  heat  proved  a  weather 
breeder,  as  some  had  predicted. 

Shortly  after  supper,  but  long  before  sundown,  a 
dense  black  cloud  suddenly  rose  in  the  north,  swept 
swiftly  above  and  around  us  till  it  filled  the  whole 
zenith — an  ominous,  low-hanging  pall  that  brought 
upon  us  in  a  few  minutes  the  utter  darkness  of  a 
starless  night. 

Quite  as  suddenly  as  the  coming  of  the  cloud,  the 
temperature  fell  40°  or  50°,  and  drove  us  into  the 
hotel. 

And  we  were  little  more  than  sheltered  behind 
closed  doors  before  torrents  of  rain  descended,  borne 
on  gusts  of  hurricane  force  that  blew  open  the  north 
door  of  the  dining-room,  picked  up  a  great  pin-pool 
board  standing  across  a  biscuit-shooting  opening  in 
the  partition,  swept  it  across  the  breadth  of  the 
office,  narrowly  missing  Mayberry  and  Fant,  and 
dashed  it  to  splinters  against  the  opposite  wall. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  violence  of  rain  and  down- 
pour slackened,  almost  stopped. 

Shanghai  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out,  shiv- 
ered, and  shut  it  with  the  remark: 

"  By  cripes,  fellers !  'pears  like  01'  Mahster  plumb 
[  260  ] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

emptied  His  tanks  that  clatter;  the  hull  flat's  under 
water." 

"  Maybe  so  He's  stackin'  us  up  agin'  a  swimmin' 
match,"  was  Fant's  cheerful  comment. 

And  within  another  ten  minutes  it  certainly 
seemed  Fant  had  called  the  turn. 

A  tremendous  crash  of  thunder  came,  with  light- 
ning flashes  that  illumined  the  room  till  our  oil 
lamps  looked  like  fireflies,  followed  by  another  tor- 
nado-driven downpour  it  seemed  hopeless  to  expect 
the  house  could  survive. 

And  while  our  ears  were  still  stunned  by  its  first 
roar,  suddenly  there  came  flood  waters  pouring  in 
over  door-sills  and  through  floor  cracks,  rising  at  a 
rate  that  instantly  drove  us  all  to  refuge  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  hotel. 

We  were  certainly  in  the  track,  if  not  the  centre, 
of  a  waterspout! 

But  barely  were  we  upstairs  before  the  aerial 
flood-gates  closed,  till  no  more  than  an  ordinary 
heavy  soaking  rain  was  falling,  and  the  wind  slack- 
ened sufficiently  to  permit  us  to  climb  out  on  the 
roof  of  the  porch  and  take  stock  of  the  situation. 

Our  case  looked  grave  enough — grave  past  hope 
of  escape,  or  even  help. 

"  Fellers,"  quietly  remarked  Shanghai,  "  here's  a 
[261] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

game  where  passin'  don't  go — leastwise  till  it's  cash 
in  an'  pass  out  o'  existence.  Here's  where  I'd  sell 
my  chances  o'  seein'  to-morrow's  sun  at  a  dollar  a 
head,  an'  agree  not  to  tally  more'n  about  five  head. 
I've  been  up  agin'  Yankee  charges,  where  the  air 
was  full  of  lead. and  the  cold  steel  'peared  to  hide 
all  the  rest  of  the  scenery;  I've  laid  in  a  buffalo 
wallow  two  days  and  nights  surrounded  by  Co- 
manches,  and  been  bush-whacked  by  Kiowas  on  the 
Palo  Pinto,  but  never  till  now  has  Shanghai  been 
up  agin'  a  game  he  couldn't  figure  out  a  way  to 
beat." 

And  so,  in  truth,  it  looked. 

The  whole  world  was  afloat,  a  raging,  tossing 
flood — our  world,  at  least. 

To  us  a  universal  flood  could  mean  no  more. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  see  rolled  waters. 

And  the  waters  were  rising  all  the  time,  ever 
rising,  higher  and  higher;  not  creeping,  but  rising, 
leaping  up  the  pillars  of  the  porch! 

It  seemed  only  a  matter  of  moments  before  the 
hotel  must  collapse,  or  be  swept  from  its  founda- 
tions. 

Already  the  flood  beneath  us  was  dotted  thick 
with  drifting  flotsam — ^wrecks  of  houses,  fences, 
stables,  sidewalks. 

[  262  ] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

Men,  women,  and  children  were  afloat  upon  the 
wreckage,  drifting  they  knew  not  where,  safe  they 
knew  not  how  long,  shrieking  for  aid  no  one  could 
lend. 

Dumb  beasts  and  fowls  drifted  by  us,  their  in- 
articulate terror  cries  rising  shrill  above  the  piping 
of  the  wind — cattle  bawling,  pigs  squealing,  dogs 
howling,  horses  neighing,  chickens  clucking  madly, 
and  even  the  ducks  and  geese  quacking  notes  of 
alarm. 

It  seemed  the  end  of  the  world,  no  less — at  least, 
of  our  little  corner  of  it. 

However  the  old  Spofford  House  held  to  her 
foundations  was  a  mystery,  unless  she  stood  without 
the  line  of  the  strongest  current. 

But  hold  she  stoutly  did  until,  perhaps  fifteen 
minutes  after  we  were  driven  upstairs,  word  was 
passed  out  to  us  by  watchers  within  upon  the 
staircase  that  the  rise  had  stopped — stopped  just 
about  half-way  between  floor  and  ceiling  of  the  first 
story. 

And  right  then,  just  as  we  were  catching  our 
breath  to  interchange  congratulations,  a  new  terror 
menaced  us — a  terror  even  more  appalling  than  the 
remorseless  flood  that  still  held  us  in  its  grip. 

An  inky-black  pall  of  cloud  still  shut  out  the  stars 
[  263  ] 


EEMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

and  shrouded  all  the  earth,  but  a  pall  so  riven  and 
torn  by  constantly  recurring  flashes  of  sheet-light- 
ning that  our  entire  field  of  view  was  lit  almost  as 
bright  as  by  a  midday  sun. 

Suddenly,  off  in  the  south,  over  the  divide  between 
the  Platte  and  the  Republican,  an  ominous  shape 
uprose  like  magic  from  below  the  horizon — a  bal- 
loon-shaped cloud  of  an  ashen-gray  that,  from  re- 
flection of  the  lightning  or  other  cause,  had  a  sort 
of  phosphorescent  glow  that  outlined  its  form 
against  the  inky  background  and  made  plain  to  our 
eyes,  as  the  hand  held  before  one's  face,  that  we  con- 
fronted an  approaching  cyclone. 

Nearing  us  it  certainly  was  at  terrific  speed,  for 
it  grew  and  grew  as  we  looked  till  its  broad  dome 
stood  half  up  to  the  zenith,  while  its  narrow  tail 
was  lashing  viciously  about  near  and  often  appar- 
ently upon  the  earth. 

On  it  came,  head-on  for  us,  for  a  space  of  per- 
haps four  minutes — until,  I  am  sure,  any  on- 
looker who  had  a  prayer  loose  about  him  was  not 
idle. 

And  perhaps   (who  knows?)  one  or  another  such 
appeal  prevailed,  for  just  as  it  seemed  no  earthly 
power  could  save  us,  off  eastward  it  switched  and 
sped  swiftly  out  of  our  sight. 
[  ^64  ] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

It  was  near  midnight  before  the  waters  began 
to  fall,  and  morning  before  the  house  was  free  of 
them. 

And  when  about  eight  o'clock  horses  were  brought 
us,  we  had  to  wade  and  swim  them  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  to  reach  the  dry  uplands. 

From  the  roof  of  the  hotel  we  could  see  that  even 
the  trail  herds  were  badly  scattered  and  commin- 
gled, and  it  was  the  general  opinion  my  herd  of  un- 
trail-broke  wild  beef  steers  were  probably  running 
yet,  somewhere. 

But  when  I  got  out  to  the  benchland  where  I  had 
left  them,  there  they  were,  not  a  single  one  missing. 
This  to  my  infinite  surprise,  for  usually  an  ordinary 
thunderstorm  will  drift  beef  herds  more  or  less,  if 
not  actually  stampede  them. 

The  reason  was  quickly  explained:  the  storm  had 
descended  upon  them  so  suddenly  and  with  such  ex- 
traordinary violence  that  they  were  stunned  into 
immobility. 

Apparently  they  had  been  directly  beneath  the 
very  centre  of  the  waterspout,  for  the  boys  told 
me  the  rain  fell  in  such  soHd  sheets  that  they 
nearly  smothered,  drowned  while  mounted  and  sit- 
ting their  saddles  about  the  trembling,  bellowing 
herd;  came  down  in  such  torrents  they  had  to  hold 
[265] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

their  hands  in  shape  of  an  inverted  cup  above  nose 
and  mouth  to  get  their  breath! 

Miles  of  the  U.  P.  track  were  destroyed  that  laid 
us  up  for  three  days,  awaiting  repairs. 

The  first  two  days  the  little  village  was  quiet, 
trail  men  out  bunching  and  separating  their  herds, 
townsmen  taking  stock  of  their  losses. 

But  the  third  day  hell  popped  good  and  plenty. 

Tempers  were  so  fiery  and  feelings  so  tindery  that 
it  seemed  the  recent  violence  of  the  very  elements 
themselves  had  got  into  men's  veins  and  made  them 
bent  to  destroy  and  to  kill. 

All  day  long  street  and  saloon  swarmed  with 
shouting,  quarrelling,  shooting  punchers,  owners  and 
peace  officers  were  alike  powerless  to  control. 

About  noon  the  town  marshal  and  several  depu- 
ties made  a  bold  try  to  quell  the  turmoil — and  then 
had  to  mount  and  ride  for  their  lives,  leaving  two  of 
Hunter  &  Evans's  men  dead  in  front  of  The  Cow- 
boys' Rest,  and  a  string  of  wounded  along  the  street. 

This  incident  stilled  the  worst  of  the  tumult  for 
two  or  three  hours,  for  many  took  up  pursuit  of  the 
marshal,  while  the  rest  were  for  a  time  content  to 
quietly  talk  over  the  virtues  of  the  departed  in  the 
intervals  between  quadrille-sets — for,  of  course,  the 
dancing  went  on  uninterrupted. 
1266] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

Toward  evening,  notwithstanding  the  orgy  had 
again  resumed  a  fast  and  furious  pace,  Fant,  May- 
berry,  and  myself  were  tempted  to  join  the  crowd 
in  The  Cowboys'  Rest,  tempted  by  glimpses  of  a 
scene  caught  from  our  perch  on  a  corner  of  the 
depot  platform  opposite. 

"  That  is  blamed  funny !  "  remarked  Mayberry. 
"  Come  along  over  and  let's  see  her  good.  We're 
no  more  liable  to  get  leaded  there  than  anywhere 
else." 

So  over  we  went. 

"  The  Rest "  belied  its  name  sadly,  for  rest  was 
about  the  only  thing  Jim  Tucker  was  not  prepared 
to  furnish  his  wild  and  woolly  patrons. 

Who  entered  there  left  coin  behind — and  was  lucky 
if  he  left  no  more. 

Stepped  within  the  door,  a  rude  pine  "  bar  "  on 
the  right  invited  the  thirsty;  on  the  left,  noisy 
"  tin  horns,"  whirring  wheels,  clicking  faro  "  cases," 
and  rattling  chips  lured  the  gamblers;  while  away 
to  the  rear  of  the  room  stretched  a  hundred  feet 
or  more  of  dance-hall,  on  each  of  whose  rough 
benches  sat  enthroned  a  temptress — hard  of  eye, 
deep-lined  of  face,  decked  with  cheap  gauds,  sad 
wrecks  of  the  sea  of  vice  here  lurching  and  tossing 
for  a  time. 

[  267  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

As  we  entered,  Majberry's  foreman  met  us  and 
whispered  to  his  boss: 

"  You-all  better  stan'  back  a  little,  colonel,  out  o' 
line  o'  th'  door.  01'  one-eyed  John  Graham,  o'  th' 
Hunter  outfit,  settin'  thar  in  th'  corner's  layin'  fo' 
th'  sheriff — allows  'twas  him  sot  up  th'  marshal  to 
shell  us  up  this  mo'nin' — an'  ol'  John's  shore  pizen 
when  he  starts." 

So  back  we  moved  to  the  rear  end  of  the  bar. 

The  room  was  packed:  a  solid  line  of  men  and 
women  before  the  bar,  every  table  the  centre  of  a 
crowding  group  of  players,  the  dance-hall  floor  and 
benches  jam-full  of  a  roystering,  noisy  throng. 

At  the  moment  all  were  happy  and  peace  reigned. 

But  there  was  one  obvious  source  of  discord — 
there  were  "  not  enough  gals  to  go  round " ;  not 
enough,  indeed,  if  those  present  had  been  multiplied 
by  ten,  a  situation  certain  to  stir  jealousies  and 
strife  among  a  lot  of  wild  nomads  for  whom  this 
was  the  first  chance  in  four  months  to  gaze  into 
a  woman's  eyes. 

To  be  sure,  one  resourceful  and  unselfish  puncher 
— a  foreman  of  one  of  the  trail  outfits — was  doing 
his  best  to  relieve  the  prevailing  deficiency  in  femi- 
nine dancers,  and  it  was  a  distant  glimpse  of  his 
efforts  that  had  brought  us  over. 
[268] 


£ND    OF    THE    TRAIL 

Bearing,  if  not  boasting,  the  proud  old  Dutch 
name  of  Jake  De  Puyster,  this  rollicking  six-foot- 
two  blond  giant  had  heard  Buck  Groner  growl: 

"  Hain't  had  airy  show  for  a  dance  yet.  Nairy 
heifer's  throwed  her  eye  my  way  'fore  she's  been 
roped  and  tied  in  about  a  second.  Reckon  it's  shoot 
for  one  or  pull  my  freight  for  camp,  and  I  ain't 
sleepy  none." 

"  You  stake  you'self  out,  son,  a  few  minutes,  and 
I'll  git  you  a  she-pardner  you'll  be  glad  of  a  chance 
to  dance  with  and  buy  prittys  for,"  reassured  Jake, 
and  then  disappeared. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  returned,  bringing  Buck  a 
partner  that  stopped  drinking,  dance,  and  play — 
the  most  remarkably  clad  figure  that  ever  entered 
even  a  frontier  dance-hall. 

Still  wearing  his  usual  costume — wide  chaps, 
spurred  heels,  and  belt — having  removed  nothing 
but  his  tall-crowned  Mexican  sombrero,  Jake  had 
mavericked  three  certain  articles  of  feminine  apparel 
and  contrived  to  get  himself  into  them. 

Cocked  jauntily  over  his  right  eye  he  wore  a 
bright  red  toque  crowned  with  a  faded  wreath  of 
pale  blue  flowers,  from  which  a  bedraggled  green 
feather  drooped  wearily  over  his  left  ear;  about  his 
waist  wrinkled  a  broad  pink  sash,  tied  in  a  great 
[269] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

double  bow-knot  set  squarely  in  front,  while  fastened 
also  about  his  waist,  pendent  no  more  than  mid- 
way of  his  long  thighs,  hung  a  garment  white  of 
colour,  filmy  of  fabric,  bifurcated  of  form,  richly 
ruffled  of  extremity — so  habited  came  Jake,  and, 
with  a  broad  grin  lurking  within  the  mazes  of  his 
great  bushy  beard  and  monstrous  moustache,  sidled 
mincing  to  his  mate  and  shyly  murmured  a  hint  he 
might  have  the  privilege  of  the  next  quadrille. 

At  first  Buck  was  furious,  growled,  and  swore  to 
kill  Jake  for  the  insult,  until,  infected  by  the  gales 
of  laughter  that  swept  the  room,  he  awkwardly  of- 
fered his  arm  and  led  his  weird  partner  to  an  un- 
filled set. 

And  a  sorry  hour  was  this  to  the  other  ladies; 
for,  while  there  were  better  dancers  and  prettier, 
that  first  quadrille  made  "  Miss  De  Puyster "  the 
belle  of  the  ball  for  the  rest  of  the  day  and  night, 
and  not  a  few  serious  affrays  over  disputes  for  an 
early  chance  of  a  "  round  "  or  "  square  "  with  her 
were  narrowly  avoided. 

Just  as  we  reached  the  rear  end  of  the  bar,  the 
fiddles  stopped  their  cruel  liberties  with  the  beauti- 
ful measures  of  "  Sobre  las  Olas,'^  and  Buck  led  his 
panting  partner  up  to  our  group  and  courteously 
introduced  us  thus: 

[270] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

*'  Miss  De  Pujster,  here's  two  mighty  slick  ol' 
long-horn  mossbacks  you  wants  to  be  pow'ful  shy 
of,  for  they'd  maverick  off  their  own  daddy,  an'  a 
little  short-horn  Yankee  orfun  I  wants  to  ax  you 
to  adopt  an'  try  to  make  a  good  mother  to.  Fellers, 
this  yere's  Miss  De  Puyster;  she  ain't  much  for 
pritty,  but  she's  hell  for  active  on  th'  floor — so  dod- 
burned  active  I  couldn't  tell  whether  she  was  waltzin' 
or  tryin'  to  throw  me  side-holts." 

But  before  we  had  time  to  properly  make  our  ac- 
knowledgments, a  new  figure  in  the  dance  was  called 
— a  figure  which,  though  familiar  enough  in  Ogal- 
lala  dance-halls,  distracted  and  held  the  attention  of 
all  present  for  a  few  minutes. 

Later  we  learned  that,  early  in  the  day,  a  local 
celebrity — Bill  Thompson  by  name,  a  tin  horn  by 
trade,  and  a  desperado  by  pretence — had  proffered 
some  insult  to  Big  Alice,  the  leading  lady  of  the 
house,  for  which  Jim  Tucker  had  "  called  him  down 
good  and  plenty,"  but  under  such  circumstances 
that  to  resent  it  then  would  have  been  to  court  a 
fairer  fight  than  Bill's  kind  ever  willingly  took  on. 

But,  remembering  he  was  brother  to  Ben  Thomp- 
son, the  then  most  celebrated  man-killer  in  the  State 
of  Texas  (who  himself  was  to  fall  to  King  Fisher's 
pistol  in  Jack  Harris's  San  Antonio  variety  theatre 
[  271  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

a  few  years  later),  brooding  Tucker's  abuse  of  him, 
figuring  what  Ben  would  do  in  like  circumstances, 
illumining  his  view  of  the  situation  by  frequent  re- 
sorts to  red  eye,  Bill  by  evening  had  rowled  him- 
self ready  for  action. 

So  it  happened  that  at  the  very  moment  Buck 
finished  our  introduction  to  "  Miss  De  Puyster,"  Bill 
suddenly  stepped  within  the  door  of  the  saloon  and 
took  a  quick  snapshot  at  Tucker,  who  was  directly 
across  the  bar  from  us  and  in  the  act  of  passing 
Fant  a  glass  of  whisky  with  his  left  hand. 

The  ball  cut  off  three  of  Tucker's  fingers  and  the 
tip  of  the  fourth,  and,  the  bar  being  narrow,  spat- 
tered us  with  his  blood. 

Tucker  fell,  momentarily,  from  the  shock. 

Supposing  from  Tucker's  quick  drop  he  had  made 
an  instant  kill,  Bill  stuck  his  pistol  in  his  waist- 
band and  started  leisurely  out  of  the  door  and  down 
the  street. 

But  no  sooner  was  he  out  of  the  house  than  Jim 
sprang  up,  seized  a  sawed-oif  ten-gauge  shotgun, 
ran  to  the  door,  levelled  the  gun  across  the  stump 
of  his  maimed  left  hand,  and  emptied  into  Bill's 
back,  at  about  six  paces,  a  trifle  more  No.  4  duck- 
shot  than  his  system  could  assimilate. 

Perhaps  altogether  ten  minutes  were  wasted  on 
[  272  ] 


END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

this  incident  and  the  time  taken  to  tourniquet  and 
tie  up  Jim's  wound  and  to  pack  Bill  inside  and 
stow  him  in  a  corner  behind  the  faro  lookout's  chair ; 
and  then  Jim's  understudy  called,  "  Pardners  fo'  th' 
next  dance !  "  the  fiddlers  bravely  tackled  but  soon 
got  hopelessly  beyond  their  depth  in  "  The  Blue 
Danube,"  and  dancing  and  frolic  were  resumed,  with 
"  Miss  De  Puyster  "  still  the  belle  of  the  ball. 


[^73] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 
CONCHO  CURLY  AT  THE  OP'RA 

EARLY  in  July,  1882,  I  made  my  first  beef 
shipment  of  that  season,  from  Ogallala  to 
Chicago.  I  sent  Concho  Curly  ahead  in 
charge  of  the  first  train-load,  and  myself  followed 
with  the  second.  While  to  me  uneventful,  for  Curly 
the  trip  was  big  with  interest. 

Bred  and  reared  in  Menard  County,  on  a  little 
tributary  of  the  Concho  River  that  long  stood  the 
outermost  line  of  settlement  in  central  west  Texas, 
Curly  was  about  as  raw  a  product  as  the  wildest 
mustang  ranging  his  native  hills.  Seldom  far  off  his 
home  range  before  the  preceding  year's  trail  drive, 
never  in  a  larger  city  than  the  then  small  town  of 
Fort  Worth,  for  Curly  Chicago  was  nothing  short 
of  a  wilderness  of  wonders.  His  two  days'  stay  there 
left  him  awed  and  puzzled. 

It  was  the  second  morning  of  our  return  journey 
before  I  could  get  much  out  of  him.  Before  that  he 
had  sat  silent,  in  a  brown  study,  answering  only  in 
monosyllables  anything  I  said  to  him. 
[  274  ] 


CONCHO    CURLY    AT    THE    OP'RA 

At  length,  however,  another  friendly  inquiry  de- 
veloped what  he  was  worrying  about. 

"  Come,  come.  Curly ! "  I  said,  "  tell  us  what  you 
saw.  Had  a  good  time,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Wall,  I  should  remark,  that  while  I  had  lots  of 
times,  I  shorely  didn't  stack  up  agin  no  hell-roarin' 
big  bunch  o'  real  good  ones.  Them  short-horns  is 
junin'  round  so  thick  back  thar  a  stray  long-horn 
hain't  no  sorta  show  to  git  to  know  straight  up 
from  sideways  'fore  he  gits  plumb  lost  in  them  deep 
canons  whar  all  th'  sign  is  tramped  out  an'  thar's 
no  trees  to  blaze  for  back-tracking  yourself. 

"  What  they-all  gits  to  live  on  is  the  mysteriousest 
mystery  to  me;  don't  raise  or  grow  nothin';  got  no 
grass,  or  cows  to  graze  on  her  ef  they  had  her. 
'Course  some  of  them's  got  spondulix  their  daddies 
left  them,  an'  can  buy;  th'  rest — wall,  mebbe  so  th' 
rest  is  jest  nachally  cannibiles,  an'  eats  up  each 
other." 

And  how  nearly  Curly  was  right  about  the  "  can- 
nibiles " — at  least,  metaphorically — he  doubtless 
never  learned. 

"  But,  Curly,"  I  asked,  "  didn't  you  have  any 
fun?  Must  have  hit  up  the  theatres  a  few,  didn't 
you?" 

"  Wall,  I  should  say  I  shore  did,"  he  replied.  "  I 
[275] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

shore  went  to  a  the-a-tre,   but  she  didn't  get  my 
funny-bone  busy  none. 

"  Say,  ol'  man,  that  thar  Chicago  ain't  no  place 
for  a  long-horn  that  was  raised  to  mind  his  mammy 
an'  'tend  his  kid  sisters.  Way  th'  men  folks  treats 
th'  women  folks  keeps  a  rawhide  that  riled  he's  liable 
to  make  a  new  war-play  about  every  five  minutes. 
Down  on  th'  Llano  th'  fellers  is  shootin'  hell  out 
of  each  other  most  of  th'  time  they're  not  busy 
dodgin'  th'  sherriff,  but  th'  wildest  an'  woolliest  an' 
th'  meanest  don't  never  put  it  over  no  good  woman, 
even  when  she's  hitched  to  a  feller  whose  scalp  he's 
huntin'. 

"  But  back  thar  in  Chicago  a  she-scalp  ain't  no 
safer  'n  a  he-one,  an'  I  reckon  so  less.  'Peared  so 
to  me,  anyway." 

"  Why,  Curly,"  I  asked,  "  how  do  you  make  that 
out?" 

"  Wall,  you  see  it's  thisaway.  When  you  turned 
me  loose  down  to  th'  stockyards,  I  axed  th'  commis- 
sion man  what  was  th'  ring-tailedest  lally-cooler  of 
a  hotel  in  town,  an'  he  teUs  me  she's  th'  Palmer 
House. 

"  Then  I  ropes  a  kid  an'  hobbles  him  with  four 
bits  long  enough  to  run  me  through  th'  milling  herd 
of  short-horns  as  fer  as  th'  Palmer. 
[276] 


CONCHO    CURLY   AT    THE    OP'RA 

"  On  th'  way  I  stops  to  a  store  an'  buys  a  new 
hat,  an'  a  pair  o'  high-heel  boots,  an'  a  new  suit, 
shirt,  an'  red  handkerchief,  an'  a  Httle  ol'  humany 
war  sack  with  a  handle  on  her,  an'  inter  her  I  puts 
my  belt  an'  spurs. 

"  Then,  when  I  gets  fixed  up  jest  like  them  city 
folks,  I  pikes  along  to  th'  Palmer,  an'  in  I  goes. 

"  An'  she  was  a  shore  lally-cooler  all  right !  More 
prittys  about  th'  fixin'  up  o'  that  house  than  I'd 
allowed  anything  but  a  woman  could  pack. 

"  Wall,  when  I  got  in  I  axed  for  Mr.  Palmer, 
an'  a  little  feller  in  sorta  soldier-brass-button-clothes 
runs  me  up  to  a  little  close  pen  with  a  fence  round 
her  slicker  than  airy  bar  in  Fort  Worth — all  glass 
an'  shiny  wood  an'  dandy  stones.  In  that  thar  pen 
was  a  quick-talkin',  smart-aleck  feller,  with  a  di'- 
mond  big  as  a  engin'  head-light  staked  out  in  th' 
middle  of  his  bald-faced  shirt. 

"  That  feller  shore  rubbed  my  hair  th'  wrong 
way  th'  minute  he  shot  his  mouth  off,  with: 

"  '  Wall,  what  kin  I  do  for  you,  young  feller  ?  ' 

"  '  You  cain't  do  airy  d n  thing  for  me,  Mr. 

Man,'  I  ups  an'  tells  him.  *  Hain't  got  nairy  busi- 
ness with  pikers  like  you-all.  I  don't  git  to  Chicago 
often,  but  when  I  do  I  plays  with  nothin'  but  blue 
chips,  an'  bets  th'  hmit  every  whirl.' 
[277] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"'Wall,  what  do  you  want,  anyway?'  he  jerks 
out. 

" '  Want  to  see  Mr.  Palmer ;  got  some  p'rticular 
business  with  him,'  says  I. 

"  '  Sorry,  sir,'  says  he,  '  Mr.  Palmer  ain't  around 
this  time  of  day.  Is  your  business  with  him  private?  ' 

" '  I  reckon  she  are  private,'  says  I ;  '  want  to 
see  him  an'  find  out  ef  I  kin  git  to  stay  all  night 
in  this  yere  Tiotel  of  his'n.' 

"  An'  I  reckon  about  that  time  that  thar  smart 
aleck  must  o'  thought  of  somethin'  powerful  funny 
that'd  happened  lately,  for  right  thar  he  broke  out 
laughin'  fit  to  kill  his  fool  self — ^jest  nachally  laughed 
till  he  like  to  died. 

"  When  finally  he  comes  to,  he  up  an'  says : 

"  '  Why,  I  sometimes  attend  to  business  like  that 
for  Mr.  Palmer;  guess  I  can  fix  you.  Here,  write 
your  name  down  there.' 

"  An'  he  whirls  round  in  front  of  me  a  hell  of 
a  big  book  that  'peared  to  have  a  lot  other  fellers' 
names  in.  She  shore  looked  s'spicious  to  me,  an'  I 
says : 

"  '  Now  see  here,  Mr.  Man,  my  name  don't  draw 
no  big  lot  of  money,  but  she  shorely  don't  get 
fastened  to  any  dociments  I  don't  sahe.'* 

"  Then  that  dod-burned  idiot  thought  o'  somethin' 
[278] 


CONCHO    CURLY   AT    THE    OP'RA 

else  so  dod-blamed  funny  he  lites  in  laughin'  agin 
till  he  nigh  busts. 

"  When  he  gits  out  o'  his  system  all  the  laugh 
she  cain't  hold  easy,  he  tells  me  th'  big  book  is  jest 
nothin'  but  a  tally  they  use  to  count  you  in  when 
you  comes  to  stay  to  th'  hotel  an'  to  count  you  out 
when  you  goes. 

"  That  didn't  look  onreasonable  none  to  me,  so  i 
says: 

"  *  Son,  she  goes.' 

"  An'  when  he  hands  me  a  writin'  tool,  not  no- 
ticin'  she  wa'n't  a  pencil,  I  sticks  her  in  my  mouth 
to  git  her  ready  to  write  good,  an'  gits  my  dod- 
burned  mouth  so  full  of  ink  I  reckon  'tain't  all  out 
yet ;  an'  while  I  was  writin'  in  th'  book,  '  Stonewall 
Jackson  Kip,  Deadman  Ranch,  Nebraska,'  Mr.  Man 
he  slips  off  behind  a  big  safe  and  empties  out  a  few 
more  laughs  he  couldn't  git  to  hold  longer. 

"  An'  does  you  know,  ol'  man,  this  mornin'  I  been 
gittin'  a  sort  of  a  s'spicion  that  Palmer  piker  was 
laughin'  at  me  inkin'  my  mouth,  maybe;  blamed 
lucky  I  didn't  see  it  then,  or  I'd  shore  leaded  him 
a  few. 

"  Wall,  when  Mr.  Man  had  got  done  ^o^aminin' 
my  turkey  tracks  in  the  book,  he  gits  a  key  an' 
comes  back,  hits  a  bell,  an'  hollers,  *  Front ! '  Then, 
[279] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

when  one  o'  them  Httle  soldier-button  fellers  comes 
runnin',  an'  th'  piker  passes  him  th'  key  an'  sings 
out,  '  Gentleman  to  No.  1492 ! '  th'  kid  he  makes  a 
dive  for  my  war  sack.  But  you  bet  your  alee  I  grabs 
him  pronto,  an'  says : 

"  '  See  here,  son,  they  ain't  more'n  about  two  mil- 
lion worth  o'  valuables  in  that  thar  war  sack,  so  I 
wouldn't  be  broke  none  ef  you  ducked  with  her;  but 
I  reckon  Stonewall's  strong  enough  to  pack  his'n 
without  th'  help  of  no  sawed-off  like  you-all.' 

"  Then  Mr.  Kid  he  up  an'  chases  me  over  to  a 
railroad  car  that's  built  on  tracks  runnin'  straight 
up  in  th'  air  plumb  to  th'  top  of  th'  house,  an'  into 
her  we  gits — all  free,  you  sabe;  didn't  have  to  buy 
no  ticket. 

"  Wall,  sir,  when  th'  feller  ridin'  her  socked  in 
th'  spurs,  that  thar  car  humped  herself  once  or  twice 
an'  then  hit  a  gait  that  would  make  a  U.  P.  ^^ress 
look  like  she  was  standin'  still,  an'  in  less  time  than 
Nebo  takes  to  draw  a  gun,  thar  we  was  at  th'  top 
floor,  about  a  mile  higher,  I  reckon,  than  folks  was 
ever  meant  to  live. 

"  An'  say !  By  cripes !  when  I  come  to  look  out 

o'  th'  winder  in  my  room,  I  thought  I'd  have  to 

stake  myself  to  th'  bed  to  be  safe.  Lookin'  out  was 

jest  like  lookin'  down  from  th'  top  o'  Laramie  Peak 

[280] 


CONCHO    CURLY   AT    THE    OP'RA 

on  th'  spread  of  th'  main  range — ^little  ol'  peaks  an' 
deep  canons  everywhere,  with  signal-fires  throwin' 
up  smoke  columns  from  every  peak,  like  Injuns  sig- 
nalin'  news.  She  shore  looked  a  rough  country  to 
try  to  make  any  short  cuts  across. 

"  When  I'd  got  washed  up  some,  I  sticks  my  gun 
in  my  waist-band  an'  goes  out  an'  down  to  th'  ground 
on  that  little  ol'  upstandin'  railroad,  an'  axes  one 
o'  them  soldier  boys  th'  trail  to  the  grub-pile.  He 
grins  some  an'  takes  me  into  a  room  so  dod-burned 
big  and  crowded  with  folks  I  allowed  'bout  every- 
body in  town  must  be  eatin'  there. 

"  Soon  as  I  got  sot  down,  here  comes  a  coon  an' 
hands  me  a  printed  sheet  bigger'n  th'  Llano  Weekly 
Clarion.  An'  when  I  told  him  I  was  much  obliged, 
but  I'd  come  to  eat  an'  not  to  read,  blamed  ef  that 
thar  coon  didn't  think  o'  somethin'  so  funny  he  nigh 
split  hisself.  'Pears  like  mos'  everybody  has  a  hell 
of  a  onusual  lot  of  laugh  in  'em  back  thar. 

"  Wall,  bein'  dod-burned  hungry,  an'  allowin'  I'd 
have  a  bang-up  feed,  an'  rememberin'  you  Yankees 
talkin'  on  th'  round-up  'bout  what  slick  eatin'  lob- 
sters makes,  I  tells  th'  coon  to  bring  me  a  dozen 
lobsters  an'  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"  '  Wha-what's  dat  you  say,  boss  ?  How  many  lob- 
sters does  you  want  ?  '  says  th'  coon. 
[  281  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

"  *  A  plumb  dozen,  you  black  hash-sllnger ! '  says 
I,  'an'  hump  yourself  pronto,  for  my  tape-worm's 
hollerin'  for  fodder.' 

"  Off  slides  Mr.  Coon,  lookin'  at  me  sorta  scared- 
like  outen  th'  corner  o'  his  off  eye,  to  the  far  end 
o'  th'  room. 

"  Wall,  thar  I  set  for  about  twenty  minutes, 
hopin'  lobsters  was  bigger'n  oysters  an'  wonderin' 
ef  I'd  ordered  enough  to  fill  up  me  an'  th'  worm, 
when,  lookin'  up,  here  come  up  th'  room  a  p'rces- 
sion  of  twelve  niggers,  each  nigger  carryin'  a  plate 
about  half  th'  size  of  a  saddle-blanket,  an'  on  each 
plate  a  hell  of  a  big  red  critter,  most  all  laigs  an' 
claws,  that  looked  like  a  overgrowed  Gila  monster 
with  war-paint  on. 

"  An'  when  th'  lead  coon  stops  in  front  of  me  an' 
says,  *  Here's  your  dozen  lobsters,  sir,'  I  jest  nach- 
ally  nigh  fell  dead  right  thar,  knowin'  Stonewall  was 
up  agin  it  harder'n  ever  before  in  his  life. 

"  Say !  I  never  wanted  a  cayuse  so  bad  in  my  life ; 
ef  I  had  one  I'd  shore  have  skipped — forked  him 
an'  split  the  scenery  open  gittin'  away  from  them 
war-painted  animiles — ^but  thar  I  was  afoot! 

"  So  I  bunches  up  my  nerve  an'  says : 

"  '  Say,  coon,  I  done  expected  a  bunch  of  th'  boys 
to  feed  with  me,  but  they  hain't  showed  up.  Me  an' 
[  282  ] 


CONCHO   CURLY   AT   THE    OP'RA 

th'  worm  will  tackle  a  pair  of  them  red  jaspers,  an' 
you  fellers  put  the  other  ten  where  they  cain't  git 
away  till  th'  boys  comes.' 

"Then,  not  lettin'  on  to  th'  city  chaps  settin'  an' 
grinnin'  all  round  me  that  I  wa'n't  raised  in  th' 
same  lot  with  lobsters,  I  takes  my  knife  an'  fork  an' 
lites  in  to  go  to  eatin',  when  I'll  just  be  eternally 

d d  if  I  didn't  nigh  go  crazy  to  find  them  critturs 

was  jest  nachally  all  hoofs  an'  horns — nairy  a  place 
on  'em  from  end  to  end  airy  human's  jaws  could 
ever  git  to  feed  on. 

"An'  I  was  about  to  jerk  my  gun  an'  shoot  one 
apart  to  find  out  what  his  insides  was  like,  when  a 
feller  settin'  next  showed  me  how  to  knock  th'  horns 
off  an'  git  at  th'  meat  proper. 

"Then  me  an'  th'  worm  got  busy  good  an'  plenty, 
for  th'  meat  was  sweeter  an'  tenderer  even  than 
'possum. 

"Before  we  got  done  we  shore  chambered  five  of 
them  animiles,  an'  when  I  paid  th'  bill  an'  sashayed 
out,  it  was  with  regrets  I  didn't  have  my  war  sack 
handy  to  pack  off  th'  rest  in. 

"Come  evenin',  I  moseyed  up  to  Mr.  Man's  pen 
an'  axed  him  what  was  th'  finest,  highest-priced 
show  in  town,  an'  he  told  me  she  was  to  a  the-a-tre 
called  th'  Op'ra. 

[  283  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"  So  out  I  goes,  an'  ropes  another  kid  an'  gits 
him  to  steer  me  to  her. 

"  Arrived  to  th'  the-a-tre,  I  prances  up  to  th' 
ticket-waggon  an'  says,  sorta  reckless: 

"  '  Pardner,  jest  hand  me  out  a  dociment  for  th' 
best  place  to  set  in  you  got;  price  is  no  object,  it's 
th'  best  in  your  show  for  Stonewall,'  privately  al- 
lowin'  to  myself  he  might  stick  me  up  for  as  much 
as  a  dollar  and  a  half. 

"  At  that  he  whispers  to  me,  *  Twenty-five  dol- 
lars,' jest  as  easy  an'  nat'rel,  without  turnin'  a  hair 
or  appearin'  any  more  ^J7cited  than  Dune.  Blackburn 
sticking  up  a  stage-coach. 

"  Twenty-fi-five  plunks  to  git  to  set  a  hour  or  so 
to  see  a  little   ol'  dod-burned  fool  play-actin'!  I'll 

just  be if  that  wa'n't  goin'  some 

for  Stonewall!  Nigh  three  weeks'  wages  to  git  to 
*  ante  an'  come  in,'  an'  no  tellin'  what  raises  he'd 
have  to  stand  after  drawin'  cards! 

"  However,  allowin'  I'd  take  a  chance,  I  skinned 
oif  five  fives  from  my  little  ol'  bank-roll  and  passes 
'em  over  to  Mr.  Holdup,  an'  then  he  picks  up  an' 
shuffles  a  deck  of  little  cards  an'  deals  me  off  six 
of  them. 

"  Course  I  didn't  know  whatever  his  game  was, 
makin'  me  a  dead  foul  deal  deliberate  thataway,  but 
[  ^84  ] 


CONCHO    CURLY   AT    THE    OP'RA 

knowin'  she  spelled  trouble,  I  shoves  one  of  th'  cards 
back  to  him  an'  says: 

"  '  Mr.  Holdup,  I  don't  know  jest  what  liberties 
a  gentleman  is  allowed  to  take  with  a  deck  back  here, 
but  out  West  whar  I  come  from  a  feller  caught  in 
a  pot  with  more'n  five  cards  in  his  hand  is  generally 
buried  th'  next  day,  an'  bein'  as  all  his  business  in 
this  world  ain't  quite  settled  yet,  five  cards  will  do 
your  Uncle  Stonewall.' 

"  Couldn't  make  out  anyway  what  he  give  me  all 
them  dociments  for,  unless  one  o'  th'  coons  down 
to  th'  hotel  had  tipped  him  off  my  bunch  of  lob- 
ster-eaters was  liable  to  drop  in  an'  want  to  set 
with  me. 

"  Wall,  then  I  dropped  into  th'  stream  o'  folks 
flowin'  in  thro'  th'  door,  all  jammin'  an'  crowdin' 
like  a  bunch  of  wild  steers,  an'  drifted  inside. 

"  Was  you  ever  to  that  Op'ra  The-a-tre,  ol'  man  ? 
By  cripes !  but  she  was  shore  a  honey-cooler  for  big ! 
Honest,  th'  main  corral  would  hold  a  full  trail  herd 
of  three  thousand  head  easy. 

"  Wall,  when  I  gits  in,  a  young  feller  in  more 
soldier-buttons  axes  to  see  my  cards,  an'  then  he 
steers  me  down  thro'  a  narrow  chute  runnin'  along 
one  side  of  th'  big  corral  to  a  little  close-pen, 
with  a  low  fence  in  front,  right  down  to  one  end  of 
[285] 


REMINISCENCES   OF    A    RANCHMAN 

where  they  was  play-actin',  an'  right  atop  of  th' 
band. 

"Dead  opposite  was  a  high  stack  of  little  pens 
like  mine,  all  full  of  folks — same,  I  reckon,  above 
me — an'  then  back  further  three  or  four  big  pens, 
one  above  the  other,  over  where  you  come  in. 

"An'  mebbe  so  them  pens  wa'n't  packed  none! 
Don't  believe  thar  was  a  empty  corner  anywhere 
except  mine.  Jest  packed  everywhere  with  men  and 
women. 

*'Th'  men  all  looked  alike,  an'  most  of  th'  women 
Stonewall  could  a  liked. 

"Th'  men  all  had  on  black  clothes,  with  bald- 
faced  shirts  to  match  their  bald  heads. 

"Th'  women — wall,  with  th'  little  they  had  on 
they  showed  prittys  a  plenty.  Never  see  so  many 
women  or  so  much  of  'em  before.  'Bout  all  of  'em 
had  nothin'  on  their  arms,  an'  their  necks  an'  shoul- 
ders was  plumb  naked  down  to — down  to  where  a 
kid  gits  his  first  meal.  An'  say,  while  they  was  nod- 
din'  their  heads  an'  gassin'  with  their  fellers,  it 
shore  looked  like  a  charging  Sioux  war-party,  for 
they  had  more  an'  bigger  feathers  on  their  heads 
than  even  Red  Cloud  sports  in  his  war  bonnet,  an' 
some  of  'em,,  if  you  ax  me,  had  faces  about  as  tough 
as  his'n. 

[  286  ] 


CONCHO    CURLY   AT    THE    OP'RA 

"  Women !  Say,  thar  was  dark  ones  an'  light  ones, 
fat  ones,  thin  ones,  an'  a  plenty  just  round  an' 
plump  proper.  Feller  that  couldn't  get  suited  in  that 
bunch  needn't  wear  out  no  leather  huntin'  round 
outside.  An'  thar  was  a  lot  of  them  honey-coolers 
settin'  close  round  me  that  kept  lookin'  up  my  way 
an'  laughin'  so  sorta  friendly  like  that  it  shore  got 
to  be  real  sociable. 

"  Wall,  sir,  that  band  was  playin'  to  beat  any 
band  you  ever  heard — horns  an'  fiddles  an'  drums; 
horns  that  worked  like  a  accordeon,  pullin'  in  an' 
out;  ol'  mossback  he-fiddles  that  must  a  been  more'n 
a  hundred  years  old  to  git  to  grow  so  big;  drums 
with  bellies  big  an'  round  as  your  mammy's  soap 
kettle;  an'  th'  boss  music-maker  on  a  perch  in  th' 
middle  of  th'  bunch,  shakin'  a  little  carajo  pole  to 
beat  hell  at  any  of  th'  outfit  that  wa'n't  workin'  to 
suit  him. 

"  Some  of  th'  tunes  was  sweet  an'  slow  enough  so 
you  could  follow  'em  afoot,  but  most  of  'em  was  so 
dod-burned  fast  a  feller'd  need  to  be  runnin'  'em 
on  his  top-cutting  horse  to  git  close  enough  to  tell 
if  they  was  real  music  or  jest  a  hell  of  a  big  lot 
.  of  noise. 

"  But  what  s'rprised  me  most,  ol'  man,  was  to 
find  that  that  thar  the-a-tre  was  built  up  round  one 
[  287  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

of  the  roughest,  rockiest,  wildest  pieces  of  country 
I  ever  saw  outside  th'  Black  Hills,  it  lajin'  in  th' 
end  whar  they  was  play-actin'.  It  shore  looked  like 
a  side  caiion  up  nigh  th'  head-waters  of  Rapid 
Creek,  big  boulders,  an'  pines,  an'  cliffs,  an'  a  fall 
carryin'  as  much  water  as  Deadman  Creek. 

"  An'  weather !  Say,  that  little  ol'  the-a-tre  caiion 
could  put  up  a  worse  storm  than  you  or  me  ever  see 
in  the  Rockies.  She  was  thunderin'  and  lightenin' 
till  I  was  dead  sure  we  was  aU  in  for  a  water-spout, 
an'  I  reckon  one  must  a  come  after  I  left. 

"  I  always  thought  the-a-tres  was  built  to  be  funny 
in,  but  that  one  was  jest  nachally  full  o'  hell's  own 
grief  as  long  as  I  got  to  stay  in  her.  Nothin'  doin' 
but  sufferin'  an'  murderin'  meanness. 

"  Plumb  alone,  an'  lost  in  th'  canon,  I  reckon, 
was  a  pore  little  gal,  'bout  sixteen  year  old,  leanin' 
on  a  stump  close  up  to  whar  I  was  settin',  an'  sob- 
bin'  fit  to  kill  herself.  She  had  'bout  next  to  nothin' 
on,  an'  was  that  ga'nted  up  an'  lean  'peared  like 
she  was  nigh  starved  to  death. 

**  An'  thar  she  hung  an'  cried  an'  cried  till  it 
'peared  to  me  some  o'  th'  women  folks  ought  to  a 
gone  to  her;  but  they-all  never  noticed  none,  an' 
went  right  on  gassin'  with  their  fellers. 

*' Finally,  when  she  got  so  weak  I  thought  she 
[  288  ] 


CI 


ic. 


'in" 


•^^1 


rry 


V 


'jMa 


But  before  he  could  light  on  her  with  his  knife,  I  hopped  out  of 
my  close  pen  into  the  canon" 


CONCHO    CURLY   AT    THE    OP'RA 

was  goin'  to  drop,  out  from  behind  a  boulder  slips 
a  great  big  feller — all  hair  an'  whiskers  but  his  laigs, 
for  he  had  on  nothin'  but  a  fur  huntin'-shirt  comin' 
half-way  to  his  knees — an'  in  his  hand  he  carries  a 
long  bilduque  skelping-knife. 

"  'Fore  I  realised  he  meant  trouble,  he  makes  a 
jump  an'  grabs  th'  gal  by  th'  shoulder  an'  shakes 
her  scandalous,  an'  while  he's  shakin'  he's  sorta  half- 
talkin'  an'  half-singin'  to  her  in  some  kind  of  talk 
so  near  like  Spanish  I  thought  I  could  ketch  some 
of  it. 

"  By  cripes !  but  that  feller  was  hot  good  an' 
plenty  over  something  he  claimed  she'd  did. 

"  An'  when,  half-sobbin'  an'  singin',  she  'peared 
to  be  tellin'  him  she  hadn't,  an'  to  go  off  an'  let 
her  alone,  he  shook  an'  abused  her  more'n  ever,  till 
it  struck  me  It  was  about  time  for  nelghbourin'  men 
folks  to  hop  In  an'  take  a  hand,  for  it  was  plumb 
plain  she  was  a  pore,  sweet-faced,  Innercent  little 
crittur  that  couldn't  done  no  harm  to  a  hummin' 
bird. 

"  'Bout  that  time,  Mr.  Hairyman  he  hops  back  a 
step  or  two,  stands  an'  scowls  an'  grits  his  teeth  at 
th'  gal  for  a  minute,  an'  then  he  raises  his  knife, 
sorta  crouches  for  a  jump,  an'  sings  out,  near  as  I 
could  make  it  out: 

[  289  ]! 


REMINISCENCES   OF.   A   RANCHMAN 

"'Maudite!  Follel  Folle!  Say  finir 

"But  before  he  could  lite  on  her  with  his  knife,  I 
hopped  out  of  my  close-pen  into'  the  canon,  jammed 
my  .45  in  his  ear,  an'  observes : 

"  *Mr.  Hairyman,  you're  a  d d  liar,  an'  it's 

Stonewall  Kip,  of  Concho,  tellin'  you ! 

"  'Little  Maudy  thar  ain^t  full,  an'  she  don't  have 

to  say  airy  d n  thing  she  don't  want  to;  an'  if 

you  don't  pull  your  freight  sudden  for  th'  brush, 
I'll  shore  shoot  six  different  kinds  of  meanness  outen 
your  low-down  murderin'  carcass ! ' 

"Th'  way  his  whiskers  skipped  over  boulders 
makin'  his  getaway  was  some  active,  while  th'  pore 
little  gal  she  jest  drops  off  in  a  dead  faint  an'  lays 
thar  till  some  folks  comes  down  the  gulch  an'  car- 
ries her  off. 

"Then  I  takes  th'  kink  outen  th'  hammer  of  my 
gun,  sticks  her  in  my  waist-band,  an'  climbs  back 
an'  gits  my  hat — ^havin'  had  more'n  enough  of  dod- 
bumed  Op'ra  The-a-tres. 

"An'  while  I  was  driftin'  through  the  chute 
toward  the  main  gate  of  th'  big  pen,  to  git  out, 
there  was  th'  dod-blamedest  cheerin',  yellin',  an' 
hand-clappin'  you  ever  heard  away  from  a  stump- 
speakin',  but  whatever  she  was  all  about  Stonewall 
didn't  stop  to  ax." 

[  290  ] 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 
ADIOS  TO  DEADMAN 

FOR  me  the  range  situation  in  '82  was  a  most 
painful  dilemma. 
I  loved  the  Deadman  Ranch,  every  nook 
and  corner  of  it,  from  the  tall  white  cliffs,  pine-clad 
gorges,  and  bubbling  springs  along  White  River,  to 
the  billowy  yellow  plains  ever  rolling  away  into  the 
south  from  the  Niobrara ;  knew  every  one  of  our  two 
hundred  odd  cow-ponies  by  name,  and  loved  each  for 
some  virtue  or  was  amused  by  some  of  his  vices ;  even 
hated  to  contemplate  a  parting  with  many  an  old 
outlaw  bull  or  mossback  long-horn  steer  who  time  and 
again  had  given  us  desperate  tussles  against  any  and 
every  attempt  at  restraint  of  the  liberty  they  loved 
and  always  fought  for;  loved  Sam  and  Tex,  who 
steadfast  through  five  years  had  stood  true  and  de- 
voted to  me,  ever  ready  as  could  be  one's  own  kin  to 
hazard  any  peril  or  make  any  sacrifice ;  loved  Charlie 
Nebo,  my  next  neighbour  down  the  Niobrara,  from 
some  subtle  strain  of  prehistoric  savagery  that  must 
[291] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

have  outcropped  in  me  to  form  so  close  a  link  of 
sympathy  between  a  youngster  bred  to  all  the  con- 
ventions and  one  of  the  most  desperate,  relentless 
feud  leaders  of  the  Chisholm  faction  in  the  Lincoln 
County  War,  a  man  as  ready  to  take  a  life  as  take 
a  drink,  a  staunch  friend  to  the  few  he  cared  for, 
but  a  most  dangerous  enemy — a  man  who,  oddly, 
in  .his  passions  or  his  cups,  would  heed  no  man's 
restraining  voice  but  mine. 

And  then  how  I  did  love  the  old  Home  Ranch  itself, 
the  first  real  house  ever  in  any  way  quite  my  own; 
loved  the  rough,  squat  log  walls  that  sheltered  us; 
loved  the  great  chimney  in  my  room  whose  crackling, 
flickering  embers  many  a  night  had  carried  me  to 
fancy's  farthest  field  and  shown  me  pictures  and  told 
me  tales  of  happenings  most  wondrous  strange ;  loved 
the  little,  placid-faced  pond  of  the  beaver  dam  behind 
the  ranch,  that  mirrored  the  surrounding  hills  in 
summer,  and  in  winter  furnished  the  ice  that  cooled 
July  juleps  and  "twisters";  loved  the  plum  and 
gooseberry  thicket  that  hedged  the  pond  round  about 
and  gave  us  the  only  fresh  fruit  we  had;  loved  the 
deep-throated,  solemn  soughing  of  the  pines,  and  the 
merry  song  of  the  brook  that  provided  the  only  music 
we  ever  heard. 

But  stay  there  much  longer  I  knew  we  could  not. 
[292] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

It  had  to  be.  The  ranch  must  be  sold,  whatever  the 
wrench  to  one's  sentimental  attachment. 

The  year  '82  was  an  eventful  one  to  the  ranch  in- 
dustry of  Wyoming  and  Nebraska,  for  it  marked  the 
dead  line  between  good  times  and  bad. 

For  five  years  prices  had  been  climbing,  until 
mixed  range  cattle  were  in  keen  demand  at  thirty  dol- 
lars a  head,  and  fat  grass  steers  were  bringing  fifty 
to  sixty-five  dollars  in  Chicago,  and  there  had  been 
no  killing  winter  weather  since  the  March  blizzard 
of  '78. 

Throughout  the  same  period  grass  and  water  were 
plenty  and  free  and  ranges  uncrowded,  ideal  condi- 
tions for  producing  at  low  cost  the  heavy  calf  crops 
and  fat  beeves  that  spelled  riches  to  ranch  owners. 

But  there  were  four  dark  clouds  lowering  about 
the  rangeman's  horizon  that  the  cow-weatherwise 
were  quick  to  recognise  meant  early  injury  and  ulti- 
mate ruin  to  their  business. 

First,  the  extraordinary  profits  the  industry  was 
enjoying,  often  as  much  as  fifty  to  one  hundred  per 
cent  per  annum,  were  attracting  capital  in  milHons, 
from  the  East  and  from  abroad;  the  annual  trail 
drives  into  Wyoming  from  Texas,  Utah,  Oregon,  and 
even  Washington  were  doubling,  increasing  at  a  rate 
that  made  it  sure  the  ranges  would  soon  become  so 
[293] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

badly  overcrowded  that  profitable  breeding  and  beef- 
fattening  would  be  no  longer  possible. 

Second,  emigrant  farmers,  locally  known  as 
"  grangers,"  were  coming  in  by  hundreds  from  the 
South  and  East;  the  stage  roads  were  dotted  thick 
with  the  canvas-hooded,  work-bull  or  horse-drawn 
waggons  of  the  sturdy,  restless  pioneer  folk  to  whose 
hatred  of  settlements  and  love  of  still  nooks  in  the 
wilderness  we  owe  so  much  for  the  rapid  occupation 
and  taming  of  the  West,  every  waggon  bristling  with 
hoe  and  plough-handles  and  sturdy  arms  to  ply  them, 
a  tide  of  home-seekers  in  our  best  watered  valleys  no 
sane  ranchman  dared  hope  he  long  could  stem.  For 
settlers  meant  fences,  and  once  the  valleys  along  our 
water  courses  were  so  occupied  and  enclosed,  free 
range  must  end,  and  rangemen  move  on  into  the 
Northwest,  or  reduce  the  number  of  their  herds  and 
go  on  tame  feed — themselves  turn  farmers. 

To  be  sure  a  few  of  the  more  stubborn  tried  to 
hang  on  for  a  time  by  the  wholesale  homesteading  and 
pre-empting  of  miles  of  water  front,  but,  since  this 
could  not  be  done  on  any  large  scale  without  gross 
infraction  of  the  Federal  Land  Laws,  few  prospered, 
and  many  perished  financially,  in  the  attempt. 

Third,  news  was  abroad  of  railway  extensions 
north  from  the  Union  Pacific  and  the  Chicago,  Bur- 
[294] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

lington  &  Quincy,  and  west  from  the  Missouri  River 
that  meant  the  coming  of  settlers  by  thousands,  and 
the  instant  extinction,  immediately  upon  their  arrival 
in  our  midst,  of  the  free  range  industry. 

And  then,  fourth,  under  the  law  of  weather  aver- 
ages, we  were  about  due  for  a  winter  of  still-falling, 
deep-lying,  long-staying  snow,  such  as,  there,  was 
sure  to  come  at  intervals,  and  when  it  came,  wiped  out 
whole  herds. 

Indeed,  the  handwriting  stood  out  so  plain  upon 
each  of  these  four  impending  clouds  it  needed  no 
grizzly  old  timer  to  read  it — as  evidenced  at  a  dinner 
that  season  given  by  the  American  members  of  the 
Cheyenne  Club  to  their  English  fellow-members. 

Horace  Plunkitt,  a  witty  young  Irishman,  since 
risen  high  in  the  public  service  of  his  native  land,  was 
on  his  legs  speaking  to  a  toast.  He  had  just  finished 
some  remarks  upon  the  high  sense  of  honour  and 
fidelity  to  verbal  agreement  prevailing  among  cow- 
men, when  Arthur  Teschemacher  interpolated : 

"  Yes ;  a  fine  lot  of  honour  you,  Gilchrist,  and 
Judge  Cary  show,  coming  in  from  north  of  the  Platte 
and  building  irrigation  ditches  in  our  Chugwater 
country ! " 

To  which  Plunkitt  replied,  quick  as  a  flash : 

"  Well,  sir,  do  you  know  that  I  expect  soon  to  see 
[  295  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

many  men  turning  the  soil  with  ploughshares  who 
to-day  are  making  a  devil  of  a  racket  and  putting 
on  a  tremendous  lot  of  side  over  their  cattle  shares !  " 

A  prediction  truly  and  sadly  prophetic,  for  within 
the  next  three  years  more  than  half  his  fellow-diners 
were  either  ruined  outright  or  forced  to  liquidate 
their  ranch  holdings  on  disastrous  terms. 

Few  long  financially  survived  the  golden  year  of 

Then  there  were  a  dozen  buyers  for  every  seller; 
and,  as  usually  follows  under  such  conditions,  while 
the  sellers  were  all  enriched,  most  of  the  buyers  were 
impoverished. 

For  what  comparatively  small  percentage  of  the 
cattle  bought  that  year  survived  the  two  deadly  hard 
winters  that  came  next  in  succession,  had  to  be  fig- 
ured at  prices  declining  so  rapidly  that  only  those 
quick  to  get  out  saved  much. 

So  it  was  trim  out,  ship  to  Chicago,  and  sell  all  the 
fat  beef  steers  I  could  gather,  and  choose  a  buyer, 
from  among  the  many,  for  ranches  and  range  herd. 

Curiously  my  cowboys  resented  even  more  bitterly 
than  did  I  myself  the  impending  invasion  and  wiping 
out  of  the  free  range  by  the  grangers — a  few,  per- 
haps, from  the  selfish  realisation  that  it  must  mean 
for  them  declining  wages,  but  more  from  an  inborn 
[  296  ] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

love  of  the  wilds  and  of  the  constant  interest  and 
excitement  of  their  perilous  occupation,  and,  in  some 
small  measure,  I  venture  to  believe,  from  attachment 
to  me. 

It  was  the  life  that  absolutely  all  of  my  men  were 
bred  to.  Of  their  calling  they  were  proud  as  Lucifer. 
For  farmers  and  tradesmen  they  actually  felt  and 
freely  expressed  the  utmost  contempt. 

From  his  own  point  of  view,  the  cowboy  was  a 
Knight  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  while  soil  tillers,  me- 
chanics, and  merchants  were  villain  drudges,  only 
tolerated  when  commanded  to  minister  to  his  wants. 

As  pacifier  of  the  plains,  he  took  himself  as  seri- 
ously, and  bore  himself  as  arrogantly,  as  any  Roman 
legionary  holding  an  outpost  of  the  Empire  in  hostile 
barbarian  territory. 

And  in  truth  he  was  no  less  a  fighting  man,  a  sol- 
dier highly  trained  in  the  tactics  that  best  suited  his 
savage  environment,  than  any  legionary  of  them  all, 
and  bore  no  less  honourable  scars  of  his  service. 

Throughout  the  nine  months  of  his  active  working 
season,  any  day  was  likely  to  develop  a  battle  in  which 
he  could  not  shirk  hazarding  his  life.  Indeed,  most 
days  did  develop  such  a  battle  of  one  sort  or  another, 
and  not  infrequently  of  several  different  sorts. 

He  was  risking  limb  and  life — and  well  knew  it — 
[297] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

every  time  he  roped  and  saddled  an  "  outlaw,"  and 
in  the  spring,  when  raw  and  rollicky  from  several 
months'  rest  and  freedom  from  restraint,  more  than 
half  his  mount  of  horses  were  sure  for  a  time  to  be 
"  outlaws  "  of  more  or  less  vicious  type ;  every  time 
he  sought  to  rope  and  tie  any  wild  cow  brute  in  the 
open;  every  night  he  rode  in  the  lead  of  a  madly 
stampeding  herd;  every  day  he  raced  a  wild  bunch 
on  the  morning  "  circle,"  or  rode  into  the  afternoon 
round-up  to  "  cut  the  herd  " ;  every  day  he  worked 
within  the  branding  pen,  whether  afoot  or  mounted; 
every  night  of  electrical  storm  he  rode  his  trembling 
horse  about  the  herd,  rain  pouring,  thunder  crashing, 
lightning  flashing  downright  close  about  him  as  it 
rarely  flashes  anywhere  else,  attracted  down  the  great 
column  of  heated  air  rising  from  the  heaving  herd, 
two  most  uncanny  round  balls  of  fire  hovering  on  the 
tips  of  his  horse's  ears,  cattle  falling  beneath  the 
lightning  strokes,  and  any  moment  likely  to  leave 
him  a  lightning-riven  corpse ;  any  night  he  sat  down 
by  camp  or  ranch  fireside  to  a  game  of  seven-up  or 
freeze-out  with  a  mate ;  any  day  of  the  round-up  he 
might  find  it  necessary  to  object  to  the  claim  of  some 
dimly  branded  beast  by  a  neighbour's  "  rep  " ;  any 
time  an  Indian  war  party  swept  out  upon  him  from 
ambush  from  behind  a  point  of  bluff  or  the  conceal- 
[298] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

ment  of  a  gulch,  leaving  him  no  hope  but  to  run  for 
the  shelter  of  a  rocky  hill  crest,  if  such  were  near, 
or,  lacking  it,  to  cut  his  horse's  throat,  and  use  its 
stiffening  carcass  as  a  breastwork  against  the  charg- 
ing foe! 

It  was  a  fightmg  man's  work,  the  cowboy's ! 

No  wonder  he  resented  eviction,  and  stood  at  bay, 
sullen  and  threatening,  contemptuous  of  the  plodding 
hoe  wielder  and  his  menial  weapon. 

As  well  expect  a  legionary  to  heat  and  beat  his 
short  sword  into  a  spade ! 

And  many  was  the  night  through  the  summer  of 
'82  that  all  the  outfit  not  standing  turn  at  night 
guard  round  the  herd,  resolved  themselves  into  a 
Committee  of  the  Whole  to  debate  ways  and  means 
to  stop  and  turn  back  the  invaders. 

Of  the  vast  forces  behind  this  first  feeble,  lapping 
wave  of  the  oncoming  tide  of  pioneer  farmers,  the 
cowboys  were  almost  as  Ignorant  as  were  the  Indians 
who,  a  little  more  than  a  decade  before,  tried  to  stop 
an  overland  express  with  a  lariat  stretched  across  the 
track. 

Of  Its  meaning  and  potentialities  they  only  knew 
what  they  saw. 

Thus  it  was  not  surprising  they  found  it  so  hard 
to  understand  why  ranch  owners  were  not  as  ready 
[299] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

to  fight  off  encroaching  settlers  as  raiding  Indians, 
and  "  chase  them  back  whar  they  come  from." 

All  lines  of  strategy  they  had  to  suggest  were  in- 
teresting, many  original  and  startling.  And  for  that 
I  failed  to  find  any  of  their  suggestions  so  far  prac- 
tical that  I  could  adopt  and  undertake  to  carry  them 
out,  I  know  lost  me  no  small  measure  of  whatever 
respect  they  had  previously  entertained  for  me. 

One  chill  night  of  early  autumn  we  were  camped 
on  Sun  Dance  Lodge  Creek,  out  on  our  last  beef 
round-up. 

Within  a  stone's  throw  of  our  camp  fire  stood  the 
ruin  of  the  great  lodge  within  which,  a  few  months 
before  we  first  came  Into  the  country,  in  the  spring 
of  '77,  Red  Cloud's  Ogallala  Sioux  celebrated  the 
last  Sun  Dance  they  were  ever  to  hold  among  the 
White  River  Hills  and  gorges  that  for  generations 
had  been  their  favourite  stronghold. 

A  few  score  standing  cottonwood  poles,  with  sheets 
and  fragments  of  loosened  gray  bark  now  clinging 
to  them,  and  then  swinging  in  the  wind  like  torn  rem- 
nants of  a  last  winding-sheet,  veritable  mummies  of 
the  tall,  supple,  graceful,  swaying  trunks  they  once 
had  been,  were  all  that  remained  to  mark  the  outline 
of  the  great  lodge  or  hint  of  the  ceremonial  mysteries 
it  had  sheltered.  Beneath  the  roof  these  now  feeble 
[300] 


ADIOS   TO   DEADMAN 

trunks  once  had  borne,  many  a  doughty  warrior  had 
undergone  some  frightful  torture  in  the  fulfilment 
of  some  vow ;  many  another  had  there  shed  his  blood 
and  calmly  watched  the  rending  of  his  unshrinking 
flesh  to  win  the  favour  of  his  Walcanda  in  some  haz- 
ardous adventure  he  contemplated;  many  a  stout- 
hearted youngster  there  first  earned  his  right  to  rank 
as  warrior. 

Alone,  as  occasionally  happened,  about  this  totter- 
ing temple  of  a  primitive  people,  the  place  of  worship 
of  deities  already  old  when  those  of  Thebes  were  still 
young,  often  have  I  long  stood  in  silent  awe  of  the 
majesty  of  a  cult  that  could  inspire  its  exemplars  to 
unflinchingly  court  and  endure  the  cruellest  physical 
torture  in  propitiation  of  its  deities. 

But  that  particular  night  was  not  one  for  musing. 

Comparatively  few  more  days  remained  to  me  on 
my  old  home  range,  and  the  boys  knew  it. 

This  they  understood  was  to  be  my  last  round-up 
of  the  Three  Crow  Brand. 

So,  while  we  lay  smoking  in  the  firelight,  huddled 
about  the  snapping  juniper  logs,  as  if  by  precon- 
certed arrangement,  the  boys  opened  on  me  with  their 
weightiest  arguments  and  shrewdest  strategy. 

"  Ain't  goin'  t'   shore  give  her  up,  are  yu,  o? 
man  ?  "  softly  queried  Johnny  Baggott. 
[301] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

"  Give  what  up  ?  "  I  asked,  for  at  the  moment  my 
thoughts  were  far  afield. 

"  Why,  th'  Deadman  Ranch  an'  Three  Crow 
Brand,"  he  answered. 

"  Nothing  else  for  it,  Johnny ;  we  could  scrap  In- 
dians and  rustlers,  but  we  can't  stand  off  grangers 
and  Uncle  Sam's  land  laws.  Under  his  laws  they  have 
all  the  rights;  we  none.  Two  or  three  years  at  the 
most  would  see  our  finish  if  we  tried  to  stay.  Once 
they've  homesteaded  the  valley  water  fronts,  what 
could  we  do  for  water  ?  " 

"  You  jest  say  th'  word,  ol'  man,"  came  Johnny's 
quick  reply,  "  an'  what  we'll  do  for  water  will  be  did 
before  them  post-hole-diggin',  gopherin'  jaspers  ever 
gits  airy  d n  homestead  within  our  lines. 

"  We'll  jest  nachally  lite  in  an'  buffalo  'em  as  fast 
as  they  show  up,  an'  any  we  caint  buffalo  we'll  shell 
so  much  hell  out  of  their  ghostises  '11  lite  right  back 
an'  warn  their  kin  folk  they  better  stay  to  hum." 

This  from  a  little,  five-foot  ninety-pounder  any 
granger  could  break  in  two  with  one  hand — if  he 
could  be  caught  without  a  gun — ^but  a  man  with  more 
reckless  dare-deviltry  in  his  mental  make-up  than  I 
ever  saw  wrapped  up  in  double  his  scant  quota  of 
hide. 

"  Shucks !  "  chipped  in  Charley  Farrell ;  "  thar 
[  302  ] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

ain't  no  fight  in  them  plough-chasin',  churn-twistin' 
'pologies  for  real  men.  We  could  take  a  bunch  of  corn 
cobs  an'  Hghtnin'  bugs  an'  make  'em  run  till  their 
tongues  are  hangin'  out  long  enough  for  calf  ropes. 
Them  fight?  Nix.  Not  on  your  tin-type. 

"  I'm  for  throwin'  out  three  dead-line  camps,  one 
on  Snake  Creek  on  th'  Sidney  trail,  one  on  Sheep 
Creek  on  th'  Janisse  trail,  an'  one  on  Rawhide  on  th' 
Fort  Laramie  trail,  an'  stoppin'  every  waggon  that 
flashes  up  a  sun  bunnet  or  a  diggin'  tool,  warnin'  'em 
first  peaceable,  but  makin'  plain  we^re  dealin'  th' 
cards  an'  keepin'  cases,  an'  then  handin'  out  lead  a 
plenty  to  any  that's  got  sand  to  put  up  a  war  play. 
But  Pm  alio  win'  she  won't  need  no  heavy  jag  of  lead." 

"  But,  Charley,"  I  interposed,  "  you'd  be  badly 
overplaying  your  hand,  at  that  gait.  What  you'd  be 
up  against  in  that  game  Louis  Changro  well  put,  the 
time  we  thought  the  Sioux  were  going  to  hit  the  war- 
path, when  I  asked  him  if  the  garrisons  at  Fort  Sher- 
idan and  Robinson  would  not  serve  to  hold  the  tribe 
in  check.  You  remember  his  reply : 

"  '  No!  Injun  he  no  give  a  d n  for  soldier;  lick 

soldier.  But  Injun  he  no  like  cowboys  or  whoa-haw 
men'"   (mule-skinners  and  bull-whackers).  "'Cow- 
boy he  ride  and  fight  like  Injun;  whoa-haw  man,  he 
no  got  horse  an^  got  to  fight.' 
[  303  ] 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

"  We'd  find  the  grangers  just  like  Louis's  whoa- 
haw  men,  except  that  a  hundred  new  ones  would  be  in 
upon  us  for  every  one  we  planted,  with  a  bunch  of 
Uncle  Sam's  troops  to  close-herd  them." 

"  Wall,  ol'  man,"  Charley  coolly  answered,  "  your 
Uncle  Sam  ain't  no  near  kin  folk  o'  mine,  or  of  any 
th'  other  boys  o'  this  outfit,  an'  ef  you  jest  turns  us 
loose  we'll  shore  go  him  an'  his'n  a  whirl,  too,  as  long 
as  thar's  ca'tridges  in  our  belts  an'  bosses  between  our 
knees,  'fore  we'll  let  a  passle  o'  tame-feed-growin', 
fence-buildin'  grangers  horn  us  off  our  own  proper 
bed  ground." 

And  mind,  Charley's  talk  was  no  idle  vapouring 
or  bluff,  for  he  was  a  man  ever  ready  to  stack  up 
blues  (spherical  of  form,  lead  of  material),  as  long 
as  he  had  any  left,  on  any  hand  he  started  out  to 
play. 

Then  out  came  Concho  Curly  with  this  rare  piece 
of  strategy; 

"  Fellers,  th'  ol'  man  is  dead  right.  Ef  we-all  gits 
to  killin'  of  them-all,  it's  a  cinch  Uncle  Sam  '11  sit 
in  an'  want  to  draw  more  cards  than  we-all  can  hand 
him  convenient. 

"  But  I've  got  her.  Let's  a  bunch  of  us  slip  round 
north  through  th'  Bad  Lands,  hit  th'  outside  Sioux 
camps  round  th'  mouth  o'  Wounded  Knee,  an'  kill  up 
[  304  ] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

enough  bucks  to  git  feathers  an'  blankets  to  rig  up 
like  Injuns  all  our  outfit,  th'  TOT's,  an'  th'  Lazy 
Oc's,  git  them  two  outfits  to  pike  along  with  us,  an' 
jest  nachally  make  them  dod-burned  short-horns 
think  Red  Cloud's  comin'  to  call  on  'em  with  his  hull 

d d  skelp-liftin'  family.  All  we'll  have  to  do  will 

be  to  show  up  on  a  ridge  an'  holler,  an'  then  they'll 
lite  in  an'  run  their  fool  selves  to  death  tryin'  to  git 
away.  Caint  tech  us  fer  that,  kin  they.?  " 

And  when  I  reminded  Curly  that  we  were  no  longer 
at  war  with  the  Sioux,  and  that  Uncle  Sam  was  sworn 
to  protect  red  and  white  alike,  Curly  growled: 

"  Shucks !  I  hain't  got  no  more  use  for  Uncle  Sam 
than  Farrell  thar ;  let's  go  him  a  whirl,  then !  " 

Then  the  resourceful  Tex  got  verbally  busy. 

"  01'  man,"  he  said,  "  we-all  knows  you-all  ain't 
no  quitter,  an'  you-all  knows  we-all  will  foller  you 
right  up  agin  hell's  hottest  back  log.  So,  p'rsonally, 
I'm  allowin'  you  has  good  private  reasons  for  not 
puttin'  up  a  fight.  Now,  if  you-all  wants  to  win  out 
easz/y  without  any  real  violence,  why  not  a  passle 
of  us  slip  down  an'  burn  th'  Laramie  an'  Sidney 
bridges?  That  will  shore  settle  them  skim-milk 
experts,  for  nairy  one  of  'em  will  ever  resk  swimmin' 
the  Platte!" 

"  No,  Tex ;  you're  plumb  locoed,"  broke  in  Cali- 
[305] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

fornia  Bill ;  "  you  caint  fire  things  up  no  more'n 
shoot  folks  up,  'thout  gittin'  bumped." 

And  then  he  proceeded  to  prove  his  higher  place 
in  the  scale  of  civilisation  by  ardently  urging  we 
should  regularly  organise  as  a  Vigilance  Committee, 
duly  arrest  all  trespassing  grangers,  duly  give  them 
the  full  and  fair  trial  the  Vigilance  Code  provides, 
and  duly  pass  and  execute  upon  them  its  most  popu- 
lar verdict — death! 

About  this  time  the  discussion  was  interrupted  by 
the  calling  of  Bill  and  Farrell  to  stand  the  next  relief 
on  night  herd,  and  the  rest  of  us  rolled  up  in  our 
blankets — I  with  a  heart  full  of  appreciation  of  the 
sheer,  stark  loyalty  to  me  and  my  interests  of  my 
bunch  of  untamed  rawhides. 

Before  coming  out  to  make  this  last  beef  ship- 
ment, I  had  already  arranged  a  tentative  sale  of  the 
remaining  cattle  and  the  ranches.  An  inspection 
by  the  representative  of  the  proposed  buyer  alone 
remained  to  be  made:  if  satisfactory,  the  trade  was 
closed. 

The  buyer  was  one  of  my  own  partners,  the  Hon. 
Abram  S.  Hewitt,  who  was  so  confident  the  large 
profits  we  were  then  earning  would  continue  that, 
unheeding  my  warnings  and  disregarding  my  urging 
to  allow  me  to  sell  to  others,  he  insisted  on  buying  out 
[306] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

my  interest  and  that  of  the  other  partners,  all  the 
rest  of  whom  elected  to  follow  my  judgment. 

His  chosen  representative  was  Bartlett  Richards, 
a  good  friend  of  mine,  and  one  of  the  cleverest  of  the 
younger  set  of  Eastern  men  then  on  the  Wyoming 
range. 

It  was  late  October  when,  after  a  hard  week  in  the 
saddle,  on  the  jump  from  daylight  till  dark,  riding 
over  the  six  hundred  square  miles,  roughly,  that 
composed  my  range,  we  finished  the  inspection,  and 
I  spent  my  last  night  beneath  the  roof  of  my  Dead- 
man  Home  Ranch. 

The  ranch  was  deserted  that  night  of  all  save  our 
two  selves,  the  outfit  away  on  the  Niobrara,  engaged 
in  making  the  last  calf  round-up  for  branding. 

We  had  to  cook  our  own  supper.  And  little  it 
was  we  cooked,  for,  though  hungry  enough,  we  were 
still  more  tired. 

So  it  was  early  when  we  both  turned  into  the  double 
bunk  in  my  room,  Bart  next  the  wall. 

But,  tired  as  I  was,  I  found  I  could  not  sleep. 

There  I  lay  for  hours,  till  the  embers  died  out  on 
the  hearth,  and  the  rude  fittings  of  the  room  were 
lost  among  the  shadows,  all,  curiously,  save  the  corner 
where  we  had  set  our  rifles  and  hung  our  belts,  which 
for  a  time  were  brightly  illumined  by  moonbeams 
[307] 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

entering  through  the  one  little  window  of  the  room, 
beams  that  lingered  and  glinted  on  the  gun  barrels 
until,  perhaps  half  hypnotised,  I  fell  into  a  mad 
reverie  whether,  after  all,  they  had  not  been  a  better 
alternative  than,  through  a  sale,  turning  tail,  a  rev- 
erie from  which  I  passed  into  deep  sleep  and  vivid 
dreams,  wherein  bridges  were  burning,  pistols  flash- 
ing, grangers  screaming ! 

The  next  forenoon  we  located  the  outfit  at  the 
Whistler  Creek  Ranch,  and  there  I  paid  off  my  raw- 
hides and  bade  them  good-bye. 

And,  save  two,  not  one  of  their  loyal  faces  have  I 
ever  seen  since. 

There  were  no  wet  eyes  at  the  parting,  but  the 
hand-grips  were  firm  and  the  "  So  longs ! "  husky. 

And  then  Bartlett  and  I  mounted  again  and  rode 
off  east  down  the  Valley  of  the  Niobrara  to  take  the 
night  stage  south. 

Where  the  Sidney-Deadwood  stage  road  crossed 
the  Niobrara,  stood  a  stage  station — on  the  west  of 
the  road  a  diminutive  store  and  saloon,  which  was 
also  the  post  office  of  Niobrara  ranchmen,  on  the  east 
the  stage  stable. 

The  lone  saloon-keeper  and  the  lone  stock-tender 
were  then  the  only  residents  of  a  beautiful  bend  of 
the  valley,  now  probably  a  thriving  town. 
[308] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

We  reached  the  station  about  sunset. 

And  who  should  be  there,  to  my  great  delight,  but 
my  staunch  friend,  Charlie  Nebo,  come  up  from  the 
Hunter  &  Evans  Ranch,  twenty  miles  east,  for  his 
mail. 

Of  course  I  told  him  of  my  sale,  that  I  was  leav- 
ing the  country  for  good,  and  introduced  and 
recommended  to  his  kind  offices  my  successor,  Mr. 
Richards. 

"Wall,  I'll  be  d d!"  frankly  remarked  Nebo, 

"  done  losed  a  neighbour  I  had  use  f  o'  " — liked — "  an' 
won  a  new  one  I  caint  tell  whether  I'll  have  any  use  f  o' 
or  not.  But,  son,"  to  me,  "  this  young  feller  looks 
good  to  me,  an'  ef  he  don't  get  gay  an'  totes  fair,  for 
your  sake  I'll  make  her  a  part  of  Nebo's  private  busi- 
ness to  see  he  don't  get  cold-decked  none. 

"  An',  son,  I  allows  a  partin'  an'  a  meetin'  thisaway 
creates  a  special  pressin'  need  for  liquor — let's  go  in 
an'  hit  her  a  few !  " 

And  in  we  went,  and  up  against  the  rude  little  bar 
we  braced,  in  deference  to  Nebo's  practical  sugges- 
tion: 

"  Fellers,  let's  stand ;  allers  'peared  to  me  th'  liquor 
gits  into  you  deeper  an'  you  kin  feel  her  further  when 
she's  chambered  standin'." 

So  there  we  stood  for  the  next  two  hours,  fre- 
[  309  ] 


REMINISCENCES  OF  A  RANCHMAN 
quently  firing  (up),  but  never  falling  back,  receiving 
charges  of  "  road  ranch  rot-gut  "  of  the  sort  Charlie' 
Russell  (that  past-master  of  plains  folk  and  plains 
craft)  swears  "  would  make  a  humming-bird  spit  in  a 
rattlesnake's  eye !  " 

Of  course  the  granger  invasion  was  discussed,  and 
it  was  a  satisfaction  to  find  that  the  more  experienced 
Nebo  held  the  same  views  as  mine. 

"  Son,  you're  shorely  dead  right,"  he  commented ; 
"  won't  be  more  'n  three  more  year  to  th'  most  'fore 
this  yere  young  feller  '11  find  hisself  chased  plumb  out 
on  th'  end  of  a  limb,  with  nothin'  but  hosstile  gran- 
gers behind  an'  below  him.  Th'  Newmans  are  pullin' 
their  freight  for  Montana  already,  an'  I  reckon  agin 
spring  ol'  Dave  Hunter  '11  be  orderin'  me  to  pull  down 
my  tepee  an'  travois  north." 

Luckily,  before  Nebo  had  time  to  hand  out  any 
more  like  cheer  to  my  good  friend  Bart,  we  heard  up 
the  road  the  shrill  "  Yip !  Yip !  Yip ! "  of  the  stage 
driver,  crying  his  arrival  to  the  stock-tender. 

By  the  time  we  were  out  into  the  darkness  and 
across  the  road,  the  coach  rolled  in  and  stopped,  and 
old  John  Bingham  climbed  down  from  the  box,  the 
last  of  the  old-time  Overland  drivers  still  pulling  the 
ribbons  in  our  parts. 

"  John,"  I  called,  "  here's  two  of  us  for  Sidney." 
[  310  ] 


ADIOS    TO    DEADMAN 

"  Mighty  sorry,  Colonel ;  can't  take  you.  Nine  in- 
side and  two  on  the  box  with  me." 

"  Well,  John,"  I  said,  "  that  is  tough ;  but  we've 
got  to  go,  and  so  we'll  just  sit  on  the  roof,  hang 
our  legs  over  the  guard  rail,  and — ^"  Just  then 
Nebo  interrupted: 

"  Wall,  I  reckon  you-all  won't  do  airy  d n  fool 

thing  like  that.  Why,  'fore  you  get  to  the  Platte, 
your  durn  legs  would  jest  nachally  get  ampitated 
by  that  little  ol'  iron  rod,  an'  drop  off !  " 

And  then,  stepping  quickly  up  to  the  nigh  door 
of  the  coach,  all  of  whose  curtains  were  tightly  but- 
toned down  to  keep  out  the  cold  night  air,  Nebo 
remarked,  quietly  but  with  a  crisp  ring  in  his  voice 
no  expert  could  mistake: 

"  You  Deadwood  gophirs  inside  thar !  Set  up  an' 
take  notice  it's  Nebo — Charles  Nebo  of  th'  Pecos — a 
addressin'  of  you.  Two  o'  Nebo's  p'rticular  friends 
needs  places  to  set  down  inside  that  thar  stage,  an' 
Nebo  wants  two  o'  you  jaspers  to  hop  out  right 
sudden  an'  make  'em  room!" 

No  answer  from  within  the  coach. 

Perhaps  a  minute's  pause,  and  then  Nebo  threw 
his  hand  back  on  his  gun  and  resumed,  in  low  tones 
of  deadly  menace: 

"  Fellers,  Nebo  never  calls  but  three  times,  an' 
[31U 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

this  is  Call  No.  2!  If  two  of  you  don't  come  jumpin' 
out  o'  thar  right  quick,  I'll  shell  up  that  coach  till 
she  looks  like  Bill  Thompson's  back  after  Jim  Tucker 
emptied  two  barrels  o'  bird  shot  into  him." 

In  the  meantime,  for  various  reasons,  I  had  moved 
up  alongside  of  Nebo. 

Most  coach  loads  in  those  days  held  some  real 
men,  and  that  coach  was  no  exception,  for  she  held 
McMasters,  of  Deadwood,  a  mine  boss  who  himself 
was  no  novice  at  gun-plays. 

The  moment  Nebo  finished,  McMasters,  pistol  in 
hand,  opened  the  coach  door ;  but  before  he  or  Nebo 
could  fire  I  gave  the  latter  a  push  that  nearly  upset 
him,  jumped  in  and  grabbed  McMasters,  shoved  him 
back  into  the  coach,  and  assured  him  there  would  be 
no  trouble  if  he  sat  still  and  shut  up. 

Then  I  collared  my  all  too-zealous  friend  Nebo 
and  dragged  him  back  to  the  saloon,  where,  in  an- 
other cup  of  red  eye,  he  solemnly  pledged  me  he 
would  interfere  no  further. 

"  Shore,  you're  right !  "  he  admitted.  "  She's  your 
funeral ;  an'  if  you-all  wants  to  quit  this  range  laig- 
less,  'tain't  for  me  to  cut  in  none." 

But  keep  his  pledge  he  could  not,  as  we  soon 
learned. 

While  Bart  and  I  were  groping  about  in  the  dark 
[  312  ] 


ADIOS    TO    DE ADMAN 

back  room  of  the  saloon  for  our  saddle-bags,  a  wild 
yell  of  terror  from  the  coach  brought  us  out  on 
the  run. 

But  it  was  high  comedy  of  a  rare  type,  and  not 
tragedy,  the  little  coach  door  now  framed. 

The  moment  we  had  passed  into  the  inner  room, 
Nebo  had  hurried  to  the  coach  and  slit  the  canvas 
cover  of  the  door  with  his  belt  knife,  when — outrage 
of  all  last  conceivable! — there  within,  comfortably 
cuddled  on  the  back  seat,  he  had  discovered  three 
Chinamen ! 

Instantly  reaching  in  and  grabbing  the  nearest 
Chinaman  by  the  cue,  by  the  time  we  reached  him 
he  had  the  poor  Celestial's  head  and  shoulders 
dragged  through  the  rent  upper  half  of  the  canvas 
door,  and  there  they  were  tugging — Charlie  with 
the  cue  twisted  about  his  hands  and  a  foot  braced 
on  the  coach  step,  trying  to  yank  him  out,  the 
Chink  clinging  madly  to  the  door  frame  to  save 
himself. 

"You  little  d d  ol'  two-legged  maverick !"  Nebo 

was  calling.  "  I'll  git  you  yet  ef  this  tail-holt  don't 
slip  none.  Come  out  o'  thar  an'  I'll  tie  a  couple  o' 
you  on  th'  boot — good  enough  for  such  little  tail- 
growin'  'pologies  for  humans  as  you-all." 

And  when  I  insisted  he  turn  the  Chink  loose,  Char- 
[  313  ] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

lie  suddenly  slashed  oif  the  cue  close  to  its  wearer's 
head  and  tossed  it  to  me  with: 

"  Well,  son,  here's  a  macate  to  tie  yourself  on  th' 
Waggon  with  ef  you're  bound  to  climb  her  bareback." 

And  then  he  added  reflectively: 

"  Wonder  whatever  in  hell  I  always  let  a  Uttle  ol' 
Yankee  kid  like  you-all  horn  me  off  for  ?  " 

A  query,  however,  he  himself  silently  answered  a 
moment  later  with  a  parting  hand-grip  that  nearly 
crushed  my  fingers. 


[B141I 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 
A   CHEYENNE   WARRIOR-HISTORIAN 

HERE  it  lies  before  me  as  I  write,  his 
book,  the  autobiography  of  Little  Finger 
Nails,  pierced  and  rent  by  the  two  .45-70 
Springfield  carbine  bullets  that  slew  its  author,  its 
cover  stained  with  the  heart's  blood  that  once  drenched 
it,  its  leaves  yellow  and  fragile  with  age. 

Racially  Little  Finger  Nails  was  a  Cheyenne  In- 
dian— a  Chiala,  as  he  himself  would  have  put  it,  in 
his  own  musical  tongue. 

His  birthplace?  Well,  I  don't  know,  precisely, 
where  it  was ;  but  sure  we  may  be  that  it  was  within 
the  smoke-browned  walls  of  a  skin-clad  tepee,  a  tall, 
graceful,  cone-shaped  bit  of  primitive  architecture, 
suited  to  the  nomadic  habit  of  his  people,  and  per- 
haps the  primary  progenitor  of  the  modem  "sky- 
scraper." Certainly  it  was  the  tallest  of  all  aborigi- 
nal habitations — framed  of  long  poles,  interknit  of 
tops  and  wide-spreading  of  base,  covered  with  the 
magnificent,  thick,  curly  pelts  of  the  buffalo, 
[315] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

Where  was  the  tepee — his  mother's  tepee — 
pitched?  God  alone  knows.  But  equally  sure  we 
may  be  it  was  near  to  some  singing  brook  of  the 
Black  Hills  his  people  so  dearly  loved,  and  in  fighting 
for  return  to  which  his  race,  ultimately,  so  nobly 
died;  near  to  some  laughing,  merry  brook,  racing 
gayly  down  from  its  source  at  the  base  of  some  tall, 
deeply  crenelated,  white  limestone  cliff,  down  along 
a  winding  aisle  of  its  own  making  between  thick  stand- 
ing black  pines,  supple,  graceful,  sturdy  of  life  and 
stout  of  heart  as  the  red  race  that  dwelt  beneath 
them;  down  out  of  the  sombre  shadows  of  the  black 
pines  and  out  into  the  bright  glory  of  the  masses  of 
light  green  cottonwood  foliage  that  filled  whatever 
broad  valley  led  the  brook  to  junction  with  La  Belle 
Fourche — the  Beautiful  Fork — of  the  Cheyenne 
River. 

Creatures  of  environment,  as  are  we  all,  surely  no 
less  noble  scenes  than  those  of  the  Black  Hills  could 
have  presided  at  his  birth  and  stirred  the  imagination 
of  the  youth  of  this  warrior-artist. 

His  right  to  place — and  to  high  place^ — in  war- 
riorhood,  no  man  may  gainsay;  for  I  know,  and  a 
few  others  still  living  well  know,  he  died,  with  prac- 
tically the  last  of  his  tribe,  fighting  to  almost  com- 
plete racial  extinction  for  his  birthright;  fighting 
[3161 


A   CHEYENNE    WARRIOR-HISTORIAN 

against  what  he  and  his  people  knew  to  be  hopeless 
odds ;  fighting  in  the  face  of  promises  of  peace  and 
plenty,  if  such  they  would  accept,  in  territory  re- 
motely alien  from  the  tall  highlands  to  whose  rugged 
fastnesses  and  whispering  solitudes  they  had  for 
generations  dwelt  loving  neighbors. 

His  right  to  rank  as  artist — well,  in  judging  it, 
please  remember  that  he  was  an  aboriginal,  advanced 
ahead  of  the  fire-making  cave-man,  so  far  as  con- 
cerned his  own  initiative,  only  in  that,  groping  for 
betterments,  his  forebears  had  learned  that  sinews 
stripped  from  the  loin  of  a  trapped  buck  and  fas- 
tened to  the  two  ends  of  a  bent  strip  of  flexible  wood 
possessed  the  potentiality  to  discharge  slender,  flint- 
tipped  reeds  with  extraordinary  force  to  incredible 
distance,  and  constituted  the  first  really  effective 
weapon  that  gave  men  mastery  of  the  beasts  and 
means  easily  to  feed  and  clothe  themselves  and  their 
offspring ;  in  that,  life  once  made  easier  by  this  new 
weapon,  they  had  time,  through  untold  generations, 
to  note  the  largess  of  light  and  warmth  the  sun 
affords,  the  chill  and  horror-peopled  darkness  that 
threatens  all  during  the  sun's  periodical  absences, 
and  from  such  observation  to  evolve  a  crude  form  of 
worship  that  first  deified  the  sun  and  later  broadened 
into  an  ethical  code,  no  less  stoutly  adhered  to  for 
[317] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

that  it  was  never  written,  that  ultimately  served  to 
make  its  adherents  the  stoutest-hearted,  the  most 
truthful,  the  most  humane  and  charitable,  and  the 
most  virtuous  aboriginal  people  world  history  affords 
record  of ;  in  that,  mentally  uplifted  by  this  primitive 
but  most  masterful  cult,  the  imagination  was  first 
stirred,  then  grew  and  broadened  until  it  sought 
means  of  recorded  expression.  This  expression  was 
found  at  last,  in  the  use  of  isolated  ideographic  fig- 
ures and  symbols,  which  later  were  organized  into  a 
more  or  less  definite  and  generally  understood  system 
of  pictographic  writing. 

Measured  by  modem  standards,  Little  Finger 
Nail's  art  is,  of  course,  pathetically  crude.  Never- 
theless, when  compared  with  the  best  work  of  his  con- 
temporaries, he  is  found  to  be  easily  master  of  them 
all,  both  in  drawing  and  in  use  of  colors,  notwith- 
standing his  implements  and  materials  were  no  better 
than  theirs:  his  palette,  a  bit  of  stone  or  the  thigh- 
bone of  a  beast ;  his  colors,  earth-pigments,  charcoal, 
a  bullet,  or  a  fragment  of  lead-pencil  begged  from 
his  captors ;  his  brushes,  bits  of  wood  chewed  soft,  and 
so  made  pliable  at  one  end. 

When,  two  years  ago,  I  wrote  the  story  of  the  last 
great  Indian  war  this  country  had — and  the  last, 
now,  it  ever  can  have — I  believed  it  to  be  the  only 
[318] 


A   CHEYENNE   WARRIOR-HISTORIAN 

consecutive  narrative  in  existence  of  its  causes  and 
the  series  of  battles  that  reddened  many  a  field  be- 
tween Fort  Reno,  Indian  Territory,  and  Fort  Robin- 
son, Nebraska.  Little  did  I  then  think  it  was  to  be 
my  privilege  to  hold  in  my  hands  and  to  peruse  an- 
other sequent  story  of  Dull  Knife's  magnificent  effort 
to  lead  his  tiny  band  of  Northern  Cheyennes,  num- 
bering no  more  than  the  slender  total  of  four  hundred 
odd,  old  and  young,  back  north  across  the  States  of 
Kansas  and  Nebraska,  every  step  of  their  advance 
resisted  by  a  force  two  thousand  strong — all  the 
troops  the  Government  was  able  to  concentrate 
against  them — seasoned  veterans  one  and  all,  tried 
in  the  furious  fire  that  lit  the  valley  and  bluffs  of 
the  Little  Big  Horn  in  1876.  Yet  there  was  the 
story  written  by  one  of  Dull  Knife's  own  braves ! 

Strolling  one  day,  in  August,  1909,  into  the  lobby 
of  the  Grand  Hotel,  New  York,  to  pay  a  visit  to 
General  Peter  D.  Vroom,  himself  one  of  the  foremost 
figures  of  the  Cheyenne  war  of  1878-1879,  I  found 
with  him  Colonel  Francis  H.  H'ardie,  who,  then  a 
young  second  lieutenant  of  the  Third  Cavalry,  was 
serving  as  adjutant  of  Fort  Robinson  while  Dull 
Knife's  band  was  there  held  captive. 

Our  session  was  not  a  short  one,  for  while  Vroom 
and  I,  happily,  meet  frequently,  I  had  not  seen  Hardie 
£319] 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

since  all  of  us  were  youngsters  together  at  Fort  Rob- 
inson at  the  time  of  Dull  Knife's  dash  for  liberty. 

Those  were  stirring  days,  those  days  of  our 
struggle  to  maintain  our  insecure  and  trespassing 
foothold  within  the  best-loved  hunting-grounds  of  its 
native  lords,  where  even  the  garrisons  were  usually 
so  slender  they  were  never  wholly  safe  from  attack — 
red  days  that  tried  men's  souls  and  bound  together 
all  who  rung  true  in  bonds  unbreakable  by  time  or 
circumstance.  Little  is  it  to  be  wondered,  then, 
loving  the  game  as  we  had  loved  it  when  we  were 
young,  that  thought  and  talk  should  take  up  life 
and  incident  as  last  together  we  had  lived  it. 

It  was  then  Colonel  Hardie  told  me  the  story  of 
Little  Finger  Nails  and  his  book,  both  familiar  all 
these  years  to  General  Vroom,  but  never  before  known 
to  me ;  or,  if  ever  known,  wholly  forgotten. 

Colonel  Hardie  sent  the  book  to  his  brother  in 
Washington  for  safe-keeping,  and  with  it  sent  a 
letter,  telling  its  story  in  simple,  concise  soldier's 
phrase,  far  better  than  I  can  tell  it;  and  the  book, 
with  the  letter  safely  pasted  within  its  covers,  has 
lain  for  the  last  twenty  years  in  his  brother's  safe. 

On  the  crest  of  the  Hat  Creek  Bluffs,  just  above 
the  headwaters  of  War  Bonnet  Creek,  Little  Finger 
Nails  now  lies,  deep  in  his  last  sleep,  where  he  and 
[320] 


A   CHEYENNE   WARRIOR-HISTORIAN 

twenty-two  others  of  his  tribe-folk,  the  last  survivors 
of  Dull  Knife's  band,  were  buried  by  Lieutenant 
George  W.  Baxter,  in  a  common  grave,  high  aloft 
where  thei  black  pines  he  loved  are  ever  bending  and 
murmuring  a  mournful  requiem  above  him;  but  his 
story  should  and  may  well  live  for  generations  among 
the  archives  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution,  where 
it  is  Colonel  Hardie's  purpose  to  lodge  his  unique 
record. 

Following  is  the  letter: 

Post  of  San  Antonio,  Texas, 

Sept.  21,  1889. 
My  dear  Joe  : 

The  pictures  in  the  canvas-covered  book  with  the 
holes  in  it  were  drawn  by  a  Northern  Cheyenne  Indian 
while  in  confinement  at  Fort  Robinson,  Nebraska, 
during  the  Winter  of  1878-1879.  I  was  then  post- 
adjutant.  I  endeavored  to  get  the  book,  but  its  owner 
and  maker  refused  to  part  with  it  at  any  price.  So 
I  gave  the  matter  up.  It  purports  to  depict  the 
deeds  of  several  of  the  Northern  Cheyenne  Indians 
during  their  famous  march  from  the  Indian  Territory 
to  Wyoming  Territory.  The  story  of  the  outbreak 
(later)  of  the  Cheyennes  is  well  known,  and  as  a 
consequence  of  the  outbreak  I  got  the  book,  and  in 
this  manner: 

Four   troops    of  the   Third   Cavalry,   A,   E,   F, 
and  H,  commanded  by  Captain  Wessells^ — ^who,  by 
[321] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

the  way,  was  severely  wounded — surrounded  the 
hostiles  and  charged  upon  them,  killing  all  the  bucks, 
and,  unfortunately,  in  the  melee,  some  women  and 
children.  Previous  to  the  charge,  I  saw  the  Indian 
artist  with  the  book  pressed  down  between  his  naked 
skin  and  the  strap  around  his  waist.  Another  strap 
went  down  between  the  middle  of  the  book  and  around 
his  shoulder.  I  turned  to  Private  Lavalle,  of  H 
Troop,  who  was  near  me,  and  said:  "I  want  that 
book  if  we  come  out  all  right."  Several  others  of 
the  enlisted  men  heard  me  also.  When  the  fight  was 
over  and  the  dead  Indians  were  being  pulled  out  of 
the  rifle-pit  they  were  in,  finally  my  Indian  with  the 
book  appeared,  dead.  The  book  was  injured  to  the 
extent  of  carbine-balls  through  it  and  was  more  or 
less  covered  with  fresh  blood. 

This  fight  took  place  near  Bluff  Station,  Wyoming 
Territory,  January  22,  1879.  Bluff  Station  was  a 
small,  log  stage-station  on  the  Cheyenne  and  Black 
Hills  road.  The  Herald  of  the  twenty-third,  or 
twenty-fourth,  or  twenty-fifth  will  give  an  account  of 
the  same.  The  muster-rolls  of  Troop  H,  Third 
Cavalry,  on  file  at  the  adjutant-general's  office,  will 
tell  you  of  the  fight,  also.  This  fight  was  the  closing 
one  of  a  series  of  fights  with  these  Indians,  and  they 
perished  to  a  man.  Frank. 

Mr.  J.  C.  Hardie, 

3004  P  Street,  West,  Washington,  D.  C. 

Daily,  on  his  duties  as  post-adjutant,  in  the  prison- 
barrack  of  the   Cheyennes  between  October,   1878, 
[322] 


«-   ^ 


^-~.  1 1 


'^i^C    c     c     c_  ■  <5^  c.   <_ 


C_^  C  c 


A   CHEYENNE    WARRIOR-HISTORIAN 

and  January,  1879,  Colonel  Hardie  had  watched 
the  writing  of  this  autobiography,  and  had  received 
from  Little  Finger  Nails  explanations  of  its  bright 
pictographs,  as  from  day  to  day  they  took  form 
beneath  the  hand  of  the  warrior-artist. 

The  book  in  which  Little  Finger  Nails  wrote,  itself 
had  sadly  tragic  history  before  his  own  life-blood 
stained  it;  the  fact  that  it  was  a  journal-blotter  of 
the  sort  that  ranchmen  then  used  for  entry  of  their 
simple  accounts,  and  that  it  had  passed  into  his 
possession,  proves  this.  Unfortunately,  the  part  of 
the  pages  containing  entries  by  its  first  owner  is 
badly  mutilated  by  bullet  holes,  but  on  one  page  we 
can  still  plainly  read  that  on  'January  1,  1878,  its 
owner  had  on  hand  horses  worth  $390,  and  cattle 
worth  $7,356;  that  on  June  10,  1878,  he  "bought 
one  Bay  Ppny,  Bally,  for  $15.00" — a  downright 
sharp  bargain,  as  horseflesh  was  then  valued. 

And  how  sad  a  story  these  simple  entries  spell 
may  be  appreciated  when  I  explain  that  they  describe 
the  owner  and  his  status  as  well  as  if  we  had  seen 
him — a  small-ranch  pioneer  of  the  sort  we  later 
called  "  nesters,"  lodged  in  a  hut  built  of  sods  and 
roofed  with  poles  covered  with  loose  earth,  located 
on  either  the  Beaver,  the  Sapa,  or  the  Frenchman 
Creek  in  Kansas;  the  sort  that  always  towed  about 
[323] 


EEMINISCENCES    OF   A    RANCHMAN 

with  him  a  wife  and  babies,  one  and  all  of  whom,  we 
may  be  sure,  were  left  still  quivering  in  their  death- 
throes  when  Little  Finger  Nails  rode  on  north  with 
this  book  as  his  share  of  the  loot  their  poor  little 
place  afforded.  The  pictographs  chosen  for  illus- 
tration record  one  or  another  of  the  almost  daily 
bloody  encounters  of  Dull  Knife's  band,  in  his  journey 
from  Fort  Reno,  with  troops,  cowboys,  or  settlers, 
in  which  Little  Finger  Nails  participated. 


[824] 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 
THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

THE  recent  reading  of  an  account  of  the 
death,  and  a  review  of  the  splendid  life-work 
in  science  of  Lord  Kelvin,  has  moved  me  to 
write  some  of  my  recollections  of  one  of  the  greatest 
of  his  contemporary  co-workers  and  close  friends, 
Clarence  King,  whom  It  was  my  Inestimable  privilege 
to  know  intimately  from  1874  up  to  the  time  of  his 
death  in  1901. 

Introduced  to  him  in  1874  by  John  Hay,  then  an 
editorial  writer  on  the  Tribune,  shortly  thereafter 
I  resigned  as  Assistant  Night  City  Editor  of  the 
Tribune  to  become  Mr.  King's  Secretary.  This  post 
it  was  my  happiness  to  hold  until  June,  1877,  when  I 
became  his  business  (ranch)  partner,  and  so  remained 
many  years  thereafter. 

In  this  way  I  came  to  know  much  of  his  family 
history,  personal  traits,  and  brilliant  career  never  yet 
given  to  the  general  public.     Few  epochs  can  boast 
his  intellectual  equal,  none  his  precise  like. 
[325] 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   RANCHMAN 

With  the  keenest  sense  of  humour,  his  was  the  kind- 
liest. With  a  shrewd  searching  wit  ever  flashing  and 
scintillating,  wholly  sparing  none,  he  never  descended 
to  hurtful  sarcasm. 

With  a  tenderness,  charity,  and  broad  sympathies 
that  dwell  in  few  men's  breasts,  his  was  yet,  au  fond, 
an  untamed  Viking  heart,  happiest  when  battling  with 
elemental  Nature  and  her  denizens  in  their  wildest 
moods,  a  heart  that  knew  no  fear  of  man  or  thing. 

With  a  learning  so  comprehensive  and  profound 
as  to  have  maintained  him  among  the  foremost  savants 
of  his  generation,  the  hours  dearest  to  him  were  those 
spent  in  absolute  or  semi-savagery — ^listening  to  the 
droning  songs  of  squaws  about  old  Winnemucca's 
lodge  fire — idling,  dreaming  about  a  Pah-Ute  village, 
watching  its  primitive  tasks  and  games,  delving  for 
inkling  of  the  racial  origin  of  its  people — garlanded 
in  a  merry  Kalakauan  fete  or  breasting  emerald 
breakers  on  a  Hawaiian  beach,  himself  daring  and 
swift  in  the  water  as  the  lithest  brown  maid  or  sturdi- 
est islander  of  them  all — vying  with  the  best  vaqueros 
of  Visalia,  in  bronco-riding  contests,  for  the  bravos 
of  the  elders  and  the  smiles  of  the  senoritas — wander- 
ing through  the  corridors  and  portals  of  the  San 
Luis  Obispo  Mission  with  a  bent  Franciscan,  gray 
as  his  own  habit,  absorbed  in  tales  of  Junipero 
[326] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

Serra's  heroism  and  sacrifices,  mentally  reconstruct- 
ing the  stirring  scenes  of  the  ecclesiastical  conquest 
of  California  by  the  Spanish  clergy — trailing  griz- 
zlies into  the  cavernous  darkness  of  their  Sierran  lairs 
and  there  fighting  and  killing  them — penetrating  the 
holiest  of  all  Nature's  holies,  her  isolated,  untrod 
mountain-peaks,  where  the  thin  air  ever  throttles 
tighter  the  higher  one  ascends,  and  where,  through 
hours  of  terrible  strain,  a  second's  loss  of  balance 
means  glissade  to  certain  death — ^^silent  in  a  negro 
cabin,  listening  to  the  croonings  of  a  turbaned  black 
grandmother,  hungry  for  some  hint  of  voodoo  mys- 
teries— such  were  the  hours  he  best  loved. 

With  never  better  than  an  indifferently  lined 
pocket,  his  was  ever  the  generosity  and  often  the 
munificence  of  a  prince. 

With  an  artist's  adoration  of  color,  a  musician's 
love  of  harmonies,  and  a  poet's  worship  of  the  beau- 
tiful, the  exactions  of  his  profession  as  geologist  held 
him  so  tightly  shackled  to  the  weightiest  problems  of 
science  that  he  was  left  little  leisure  for  the  exercise 
of  talents  and  genius  that  might  easily  have  distin- 
guished him  among  the  most  brilliant  devotees  of 
the  brush,  the  score,  or  the  pen. 

Indeed  so  strong  was  his  bent  for  color,  that  often 
whole  pages  of  closely  reasoned,  deductive  exposition 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

of  his  theories  of  earth  structure  were  so  beautifully 
embellished,  under  the  combined  influence  of  his  fertile 
fancy  and  marvellous  skill  as  word  painter,  that  they 
remain  gems  of  literary  art  of  the  first  water. 

I  wonder  if  any  one  ever  sat  at  table  with  him  un- 
served by  him  with  that  best  of  mental  sauce — an 
epigram ! 

One  Spring  morning  of  '76,  shortly  after  his  com- 
pletion of  the  field  work  of  the  U.  S.  Geological  Sur- 
vey of  the  Fortieth  Parallel,  while  we  were  sitting 
at  breakfast  with  his  mother,  in  Newport,  he  re- 
marked : 

"  Mother,  I  must  write  a  novel." 

"But,  Clarence,"  his  mother  asked,  "don't  you 
think  your  fifteen  years  as  a  field  geologist  in  moun- 
tain and  desert  solitudes  have  been  a  poor  sort  of 
preparation  for  the  successful  writing  of  fiction?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  mother,"  King  flashed  back ;  "geology 
itself  is  chiefly  a  matter  of  the  imagination — one  man 
can  actually  see  into  the  ground  as  far  as  another; 
best  training  conceivable  in  constructive  imagina- 
tion." 

Again,  talking  with  his  life-long  familiar,  James 
Terry  Gardiner,  at  luncheon,  of  the  generally  pre- 
vailing predilection  of  New  York's  "  Four  Hundred  '' 

[328] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

to  ape  the  social  customs  and  lives  of  the  British 
aristocracy,  King  said :  "  Gardiner,  New  York  so- 
ciety reminds  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  a  simian 
circus." 

Another  evening,  returned  from  a  dinner  at  the 
house  of  a  newly  ripened  plutocrat,  surfeited  with 
the  vulgar  prodigality  of  its  superficial  display  and 
bored  by  its  stupidity,  King  threw  off  his  coat,  and, 
with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  remarked ;  "  Gardiner, 
these  people  have  bought  the  scenery  of  society,  but 
the  play  is  n't  going  on." 

And  of  civilization  in  general  he  once  said:  "Civ- 
ilization !    Why,  it  is  a  nervous  disease !  " 

Ever  ready,  too,  were  his  lighter  quips,  as  when 
one  evening,  sitting  on  the  balcony  behind  the  Cen- 
tury Club  which  looks  down  upon  a  garden  used  as 
an  outdoor  dining-room  by  a  Hebrew  club,  he  and 
his  friends  were  startled  by  a  wild  shout  of  merri- 
ment from  one  of  the  diners,  and  some  one  asked, 
"  What  is  that.''  "  King  promptly  responded,  "  It 's 
a  Jubilo!" 

Even  in  his  early  youth  his  wit  was  ever  flashing, 
his  mind  constantly  questing,  often  along  weirdly 
droll  lines.  While  he  and  Gardiner  were  mere  lads, 
one  day  they  were  returning  to  Hartford  from  a 

[3S9] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

trout-fishing  excursion,  both  attired  in  costumes, 
gotten  up  for  the  occasion,  which  were  far  more 
picturesque  than  conventional,  when,  in  passing  a 
country  school-house  where  a  lot  of  big  girls  were  at 
play,  the  appearance  of  the  boys  excited  shouts  of 
laughter.  Instantly  King  turned,  struck  a  pose  of 
severity,  and  gravely  remarked :  "  Always  remember, 
young  ladies,  that  modesty  is  the  best  policy."  And 
then,  after  walking  some  distance  in  silence,  he 
queried :  "  Gardiner,  why  don't  they  ever  make  a 
girl  both  plump  and  spiritual  ?  "  A  most  interesting 
problem,  plainly,  but  one  for  which,  Gardiner  frankly 
admits,  the  half-century  elapsed  since  it  was  pro- 
pounded has  found  no  answer. 

That  Clarence  King  should  have  been  such  a 
ready,  bold,  and  successful  adventurer,  alike  into  the 
more  remote  fields  of  art  and  learning  and  amid 
the  thousand  perils  that  beset  the  first  explorer  of  the 
scorching  deserts  and  of  the  grim,  forbidding  soli- 
tudes and  nigh  impregnable  defences  of  the  tallest 
mountain-peaks  of  our  continent,  is  little  to  be  won- 
dered when  we  come  to  take  count  of  his  ancestry. 

Chance  had  no  part  in  the  production  of  such  an 
exquisitely  finished,  refined,  sublimated  mentality. 

He  had  to  be  just  what  he  was — surely  generations 
back  it  must  have  been  inexorably  so  ordained. 
[330] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

Everything  we  know  of  his  family  history — and  for- 
tunately we  know  much — points  it. 

Had  an  immortal,  wise  in  the  propagation  of  de- 
finite human  type  modifications  as  is  Luther  Bur- 
bank  in  his  miraculous  control  of  plant  types,  landed 
with  Daniel  King,  in  the  first  third  of  the  seventeenth 
'  century,  on  the  then  savage  Massachusetts  coast,  pos- 
sessed with  the  purpose  and  endowed  with  the  power 
to  determine  the  alliances  and  pursuits  of  this  son 
of  Ralphe  Kinge  of  Hertfordshire,  and  of  his  oif- 
spring  from  generation  to  generation  after  him,  with 
view  to  the  ultimate  production  of  a  man  ideally  per- 
fect mentally  and  physically,  the  result  could  not 
have  been  better. 

Lacking  such  an  immortal,  then  certainly  a  pre- 
conceived destiny  must  have  guided  the  matings  and 
occupations  of  King's  forebears. 

Benjamin,  of  the  third  generation  of  Daniel's  get, 
early  come  to  Newport,  R.  I.,  from  his  birthplace 
at  Salem,  Mass.,  was  a  man  of  unusual  scientific 
attainments,  absorbed  in  philosophical  studies  and  a 
helper  of  Benjamin  Franklin  in  his  experiments  in 
electricity. 

And,  since  the  ideal  ultimate  product  sought  must 
not  be  a  one-sided  but  a  many-sided  man,  we  are  not 
surprised  to  learn  that  two  of  the  greatest  artist* 
[331] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

of  their  time,  Washington  Allston  and  Malbone,  the 
miniature  painter,  had  for  their  master  Samuel,  son 
of  Benjamin  and  great-grandfather  of  Clarence 
King. 

Nor,  needing  a  strain  of  blood  heavy  with  tradi- 
tions of  pomp  and  state  and  deeds  of  high  emprise, 
is  it  to  be  marvelled  at  that  Samuel  chose  for  wife 
a  Vernon  of  lineal  descent  from  those  of  Haddon 
Hall? 

And,  as  had  become  usual  with  each  new  genera- 
tion, progressive  differentiation  was  prompt  and  posi- 
tive in  its  appearance. 

Thus  late  in  the  eighteenth  and  early  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  Samuel  Vernon  King,  grandfather  of 
Clarence,  made  history  as  a  pioneer  commercial  ad- 
venturer in  the  China  trade.  As  member  of  the  great 
firm  of  Talbot,  Olyphant  &  King  he  rode  out  ty- 
phoons, fought  the  pirates  that  then  swarmed  upon 
the  far  Eastern  seas,  won  the  respect  and  confidence 
of  Chinese  merchants,  and  there  many  years  dwelt  in 
an  Oriental  state  and  magnificence  of  which  the  house 
of  Aunt  Catherine  King,  at  the  corner  of  Church  and 
High  Streets,  Newport,  still  held  many  beautiful 
relics — priceless  fabrics  and  porcelains,  that  Clar- 
ence was  ever  fondling — thirty  years  ago. 

As  King  &  Co.,  the  four  sons  of  Samuel  Vernon 
[332] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

King  took  over  the  business  of  Talbot,  Olyphant  & 
King. 

While  the  elder  and  the  third  of  the  four  brothers 
were  at  their  commercial  post  at  Hongkong,  the 
second  brother,  James  Rivers  King,  then  only  twenty- 
one,  took  Florence  Little  in  marriage.  Of  this  mar- 
riage Clarence  King  was  born,  January  6,  1842. 

And  into  the  strain  his  mother  brought  rare  blood 
and  some  of  its  noblest  traits. 

Of  two  great-grandfathers  on  her  side,  one  was  a 
graduate  of  Yale  and  honored  with  a  degree  by 
Harvard,  the  other  a  Yale  graduate,  a  United  States 
Senator,  and  an  LL.D.  of  Brown,  while  his  maternal 
grandfather,  William  Little,  Jr.,  was  a  brilliant 
scholar  and  linguist,  and  his  maternal  grandmother, 
Sophia  Little,  I  myself  well  remember  as  a  woman 
of  the  broadest  philanthropy  and  most  tireless  char- 
ity, who,  throughout  the  ninety-five  years  of  her 
happily  long  life,  never  rested  till  such  of  the  needy 
as  she  was  able  to  help  had  been  provided  for,  and 
such  of  the  suffering  as  she  could  reach  had  been 
consoled. 

Early  in  his  infancy  the  shock  of  tragedy,  the  pall 
of  bereavement,  and  the  manifold  burdens  of  a  sweep- 
ing family  disaster  fell  upon  King's  young  mother — 
fell  while  she  was  still  scarcely  out  of  her  'teens — 
[333] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

fell  with  a  suddenness  and  force  that  would  have 
completely  crushed  any  but  the  mentally  and  morally 
strongest. 

While  the  story  of  the  series  of  deaths  and  disas- 
ters which  extinguished  the  house  of  King  Sz  Co.  is, 
as  herein  told,  widely  different  from  the  version  con- 
tained in  that  most  beautiful  labor  of  love,  the 
"Clarence  King  Memoirs"  (a  work  conceived  by  his 
life-long  friend  Jas.  D.  Hague,  written  by  Mr.  Hague 
John  Hay,  William  Dean  Howells,  John  La  Farge, 
William  Crary  Brownell,  Edward  Gary,  Samuel 
Franklin  Emmons,  Rossiter  W.  Raymond,  Edmund 
C.  Stedman,  and  Daniel  Oilman,  and  published  by  the 
Century  Club — a  work  that  must  stand  for  all  time 
among  the  most  remarkable  tributes  ever  paid  to  any 
man  living  or  dead,  for  all  time  an  impressive  monu- 
ment to  the  memory  of  him  who  inspired  it  and  proof 
of  the  profound  admiration  and  love  he  in  life  won 
from  the  greatest  of  his  contemporaries  in  science, 
art,  and  letters),  nevertheless  my  memory  of  Clar- 
ence King's  own  tales  to  me  of  the  death  of  his  father 
and  two  uncles  and  of  the  ruin  of  their  firm,  seems 
so  clear  that  I  venture  to  record  them  as  my  memory 
tells  me  he  told  them. 

More  than  a  year  before  the  marriage  of  James 
Rivers  King,  the  third  brother  left  Hongkong  in  a 
[334] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

packet  of  their  fleet  for  a  prolonged  trading  voyage 
in  the  Southern  Sea. 

Weeks  first  and  then  months  passed  without  ad- 
vices from  or  of  him. 

Ships  came  to  Hongkong  that  had  made  all  impor- 
tant ports  north  of  Bangkok  and  had  no  news  of  the 
venturesome  trader;  coasting  junks  from  the  most 
isolated  harbors  of  mainland  and  islands  knew  no 
more. 

With  much  of  the  coast  hostile  territory,  with  none 
of  it  cordial  to  the  Foreign-Devil  traders,  with  almost 
every  headland  hiding  a  lurking  fleet  of  pirate  junks, 
the  elder  son  became  possessed  with  the  fear  either 
that  his  brother  had  fallen  prey  to  the  pirates,  or 
captive  to  hostile  natives,  or  that  his  vessel  had  been 
wrecked  in  a  typhoon. 

Instantly  his  fears  were  roused  he  wrote  urging 
his  brother  James  to  come,  at  once,  from  far-away 
Newport,  to  his  aid. 

Shortly  thereafter  his  anxiety  became  so  great  that 
he  found  a  vessel  in  everything  needful  for  a  long 
cruise,  committed  the  affairs  of  the  house  to  the  care 
of  a  trusted  chief  clerk,  and  himself  sailed  away 
south  to  a  doom  even  more  terrible  than  the  worst 
he  had  feared  for  his  lost  brother. 

For  long  weary  months  he  ploughed  the  uncharted 
[335] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

Southern  Sea,  always  hugging  the  coast,  a  leadsman 
ever  calling  the  mark  from  the  fore  chains,  poking 
into  every  bay  and  inlet,  narrowly  weathering  the 
treacherous  currents  of  bold  headlands,  fighting  off 
ruffian  junk  crews,  making  frequent  landings  to  ques- 
tion the  natives,  hailing  craft  for  tidings  none  could 
give  him. 

Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  month  after  month 
this  devoted  brother  continued  his  search,  constantly, 
from  dawn  to  dark,  with  eye  glued  to  telescope, 
straining  his  vision  in  vain  strivings  to  penetrate  the 
shimmering  heat  waves  of  the  tropic  sea,  until  one 
day,  like  a  stroke  of  lightning  out  of  a  cloudless  sky, 
perpetual  night  fell  upon  him — the  night  of  total 
blindness,  which  ever  after  shut  out  from  him  the 
light  of  day  as  completely  as  to  this  hour  the  deep 
still  guards  the  secret  of  his  brother's  fate ! 

To  James  Rivers  King  the  summons  from  his 
troubled  elder  brother  came  most  inopportunely:  his 
honeymoon  was  little  more  than  over.  Yet  the  sum- 
mons was  imperative  and  not  to  be  ignored.  It  was 
the  call  of  his  own  blood  in  distress.  Moreover,  their 
fortunes  might  be  imperilled,  for  the  lost  vessel  car- 
ried a  rich  cargo  representing  no  unimportant  part 
of  their  capital. 

Thus,  so  soon  as  a  vessel  could  be  fitted  for  a  cruise 
[336] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

to  the  far  side  of  the  world,  James  sailed  for  Hong- 
kong, leaving  behind  a  tearful  bride  who  found  naught 
of  solace  for  his  absence  until  the  birth  of  the  son 
she  named  Clarence. 

Meantime,  on  the  months  rolled  without  word  of 
the  voyager. 

Sometimes,  through  delays  caused  by  stress  of 
weather,  the  China  packets  made  some  port  for  sup- 
plies and  thus  had  chance  to  mail  letters,  or  a  pass- 
ing home-bound  whaler  brought  tidings  of  them. 

At  first  of  course,  there  was  reason  to  hope  the  lack 
of  news  meant  he  was  making  fair  weather  and  driv- 
ing straight  for  his  far  Eastern  destination.  But 
when  at  length  packets  reached  Newport  which 
had  cleared  from  Hongkong  long  after  James  should 
have  arrived  there,  with  advices  he  had  not  made 
port,  it  needed  all  her  fortitude,  helped  by  the  joys 
and  cares  of  young  motherhood,  to  stand  the  strain. 

Then  one  day  the  cord  of  hope  snapped  and  every- 
thing went  black. 

Letters  came  from  the  blind  brother  reproaching 
James  for  not  coming  to  him,  telling  of  the  fruitless 
search  of  the  Southern  Sea  and  of  his  own  wretched 
fate,  and  finally,  giving  details  of  the  ruin  of  their 
house — looted  clean  during  his  absence  by  the  clerk 
he  had  left  in  charge! 

[337] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

Surely  a  shock  to  hopelessly  crush  any  but  a  truly 
Roman  wife  and  mother ! 

Of  course  for  yet  many  weary  months  the  sorrow- 
ing Newport  household  cherished  hope  of  better  news 
— but  none  ever  came !  The  sea,  the  cruel  sea,  held 
tight  to  its  secrets  as  to  its  dead. 

But  no  mother  ever  rose  more  bravely  out  of  be- 
reavement and  disaster  than  did  Florence  King. 
Completely  centred  in  her  son,  she  bent  a  rare  in- 
tellect singly  to  the  task  of  his  training  and  educa- 
tion. The  better  to  guide  and  help  him,  she  mastered 
Greek,  Latin,  and  the  modern  languages. 

But  very  early  in  his  youth  he  showed  a  fondness 
for  Nature  and  an  acute  inquiring  interest  in  her 
works  that  detennined  his  mother  to  guide  his  steps 
into  the  paths  of  science.  And  so  guide  them  she 
did,  with  constant  care  no  time  was  wasted  on  ex- 
cursions into  fields  of  learning  widely  alien  from 
science,  soon  choosing  geology  as  his  specialty. 

Thus  almost  from  his  very  childhood  every  step  of 
his  studies  was  a  tangential  advance  upon  a  certain 
goal. 

No  wonder  he  so  early  reached  it,  or  that  he  mas- 
tered its  most  abstruse  and  puzzling  problems  while 
yet  most  of  his  contemporaries  were  groping  far  be- 
hind him. 

[338] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

Prepared  in  the  endowed  High  School  of  Hartford^ 
in  1859,  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  entered  the  Shef- 
field Scientific  School,  where,  as  pupil  of  the  great 
Dana,  he  received  the  thorough  grounding  in  the 
principles  of  mineralogy  and  geology  that,  applied 
and  illuminated  by  his  own  great  genius,  later  made 
him  one  of  its  foremost  exponents  during  his  genera- 
tion. 

And  precisely  as  he  easily  led  all  his  fellows  in  his 
technical  studies,  so  also,  by  testimony  of  his  class- 
mate and  life-long  friend,  James  Terry  Gardiner,  and 
of  others,  he  far  surpassed  them  in  literary  talent, 
and  also  made  well-loved  class  traditions  by  his  pluck 
and  generalship  as  stroke  of  its  crew  and  captain 
of  its  baseball  team. 

The  Winter  after  his  graduation  from  Sheffield, 
he  spent  in  the  study  of  glaciology  under  Prof. 
Agassiz. 

Preparations  for  his  scientific  work  finished,  the 
Spring  of  '63  found  King  and  his  classmate  Gardiner 
plodding  the  old  Overland  Trail  from  St.  Joseph  to 
California  with  a  party  of  emigrants,  up  the  North 
Platte  and  the  Sweetwater  and  out  across  the  Hum- 
boldt Desert,  caring  for  their  mounts,  shooting  their 
meat,  lending  a  hand  where  needed,  'prentice  to  the 

[339] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

pioneer  life  they  must  master  to  fit  them  for  field  work 
in  the  Western  wilds. 

Stopping  in  Virginia  City  to  see  the  famous  Com- 
stock  Lode,  the  burning  of  their  lodging-house  de- 
stroyed all  they  owned — ^but  their  pluck. 

Working  as  laborer  in  a  quartz  mill,  in  a  few  weeks 
King  earned  enough  money  to  enable  them  to  finish 
their  journey. 

On  the  boat  from  Sacramento  to  'Frisco,  they  met 
Prof.  Wm.  H.  Brewer,  then  assistant  to  Prof.  Whit- 
ney, the  chief  of  the  Geological  Survey  of  California, 
with  whom  a  little  later,  cordially  accepted  as  volun- 
teer aid,  King  won  his  degree  as  Mountaineer  by  a 
successful  ascent  of  Lassen's  Peak. 

Of  this  adventure,  Prof.  Raymond  tells  us  in  the 
"Memoirs."  Prof.  Brewer  wrote  a  friend : 

"On  the  way  back  King  wanted  to  try  a  glissade 
down  one  of  the  snow  slopes.  I  objected,  uncertain 
whether  he  could  stop  before  reaching  the  rocks  at 
the  bottom.  He  had  his  way  and  came  out  with  only 
a  few  bruises." 

In  those  days,  most  of  the  men  of  the  California 
mountain  camps  posed  as  desperados,  and  went  about 
burdened  with  a  more  or  less  heavy  assortment  of  fire 
arms,  the  tenderfeet  and  bluffers  by  preference  sport- 

[340] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

ing  the  more  conspicuous  six-shooter,  while  one  or 
more  of  the  vest  or  trousers  pockets  of  the  really 
readv  and  artistic  life-takers  was  sure  to  hold  a  short 
Derringer  pistol,  which  was  often,  on  due  emergency, 
fired  from  within  the  pocket.  On  one  occasion,  when 
in  the  joint  bar  and  office  of  a  little  mountain  hotel, 
King  was  unavoidably  drawn  into  an  argument  with 
a  bitterly  aggressive  advocate  of  secession,  which  fin- 
ally became  so  heated  that  King's  adversary  dropped 
his  hand  on  his  six-shooter.  But  he  never  drew  it. 
King  was  entirely  unarmed;  but,  standing  at  the 
moment  with  his  right  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket, 
at  the  first  hostile  move  he  stuck  forward  his  thumb 
until  it  looked  like  a  muzzle  of  a  pistol  and  then 
snapped  a  quill  toothpick  that  fortunately  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  same  pocket,  the  sound  of  which 
was  so  much  like  the  muffled  click  of  a  pistol  lock, 
that  his  adversary  promptly  bolted  through  the  door. 
Turning  to  Gardiner  with  a  laugh,  King  observed: 
"  Gardiner,  in  this  country  there  are  not  many  wolves 
in  sheep's  clothing,  but  there  are  a  lot  of  sheep  in 
wolves'  clothing." 

For  three  years  the  inseparables  remained  with 
the  California  Survey,  King  as  assistant  geologist, 
Gardiner  as  assistant  topographer. 

[341] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

And  it  was  during  this  very  novitiate  in  his  work 
as  field  geologist  that,  from  certain  phenomena,  King 
deduced  the  existence  of  glaciers  on  Mount  Shasta 
(notwithstanding  Brewer  had  encountered  none  in 
his  own  ascent  of  the  peak  and  doubted  their  exist- 
ence, and  a  few  years  later  himself  proved  the  truth 
of  his  theory,  and  also  made  the  discovery  of  fossils 
in  the  California  gold-bearing  slates  which  absolutely 
fixed  the  much  mooted  question  of  their  geologic  age. 

It  was  in  '64  that  King  assaulted  that  magnificent 
cluster  of  peaks  that  tower  above  the  smiling  valley 
of  the  Kern,  then  suspected  and  later  proved  the 
highest  on  this  continent,  bar  those  of  Alaska,  the 
actual  roof-crest  of  the  United  States. 

Then,  every  foot  of  the  region  was  terra  incognita. 
Brewer  and  his  brilliant  assistant,  Hoffman,  had 
essayed  the  peak  then  thought  the  tallest,  and  de- 
clared one  "  might  as  well  try  to  get  on  a  cloud." 

King's  companion  was  Cotter,  "  stout  of  limb, 
stronger  yet  in  heart,  of  iron  endurance  .  .  . 
in  his  manhood  no  room  for  fear  or  shirk." 

Of  their  mighty  goal  and  of  incidents  of  the  ascent 
King  wrote  in  "Mountaineering": 

"  Rising  on  the  other  side,  cliff  above  cliff,  preci- 
pice piled  upon  precipice,  rock  over  rock,  up  against 
the  sky,  towered  the  most  gigantic  mountain-wall  in 
[342] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

America,  culminating  in  a  noble  pile  of  Gothic-finished 
granite  and  enamel-like  snow.  How  grand  and  in- 
viting looked  its  white  form,  its  untrodden,  unknown 
crest,  so  high  and  so  pure  in  the  clear,  strong  blue! 
I  looked  at  it  as  one  contemplating  the  purpose  of  his 
life;  and  for  just  one  moment  I  would  have  rather 
liked  to  dodge  that  purpose  .  .  .  but  all  this 
quickly  vanished,  leaving  a  cheerful  resolve  to  go 
ahead.     .     .     . 

"  I  did  not  wonder  that  Brewer  and  Hoifman  pro- 
nounced our  undertaking  impossible.  .  .  .  Our 
friends  helped  us  on  with  our  packs  in  silence,  and 
as  we  shook  hands  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the 
party.  .  .  .  Asked  for  my  plan,  I  had  to  own 
I  had  but  one,  which  was  to  reach  the  highest  peak 
in  the  range. 

"  Choosing  [the  second  day  of  their  terrible 
labor]  what  looked  like  the  least  impossible  way, 
we  started ;  but  finding  it  unsafe  to  work  with  packs 
on,  resumed  the  yesterday's  plan — Cotter  taking  the 
lead,  climbing  about  fifty  feet  ahead,  and  hoisting  up 
tlie  knapsacks  and  barometer  as  I  tied  them  to  a 
lasso  .  .  .  until  we  stood  together  upon  a  mere 
shelf,  not  more  than  two  feet  wide,  which  led  diag- 
onally up  the  smooth  cliff.  Edging  along  in  careful 
steps,  our  backs  flattened  upon  the  granite,  we  moved 
[343] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

slowly  to  a  broad  platform,  where  we  stopped  for 
breath. 

"  There  was  no  foothold  above  us.  Looking  down 
over  the  course  we  had  come,  it  seemed,  and  I  really 
believe  it  was,  an  impossible  descent;  for  one  can 
climb  upward  with  safety  where  he  cannot  down- 
ward. To  turn  back  was  to  give  up  in  defeat;  and 
we  sat  at  least  half  an  hour,  suggesting  all  possible 
routes  to  the  summit,  accepting  none  and  feeling  dis- 
heartened. About  thirty  feet  directly  above  our 
heads  was  another  shelf,  which,  if  we  could  reach, 
seemed  to  offer  at  least  a  temporary  way  upward.  On 
its  edge  were  two  or  three  spikes  of  granite,  whether 
firmly  connected  with  the  cliff,  or  merely  blocks  of 
debris,  we  could  not  tell.  I  said  to  Cotter  I  thought  of 
but  one  possible  plan;  it  was  to  lasso  one  of  these 
blocks,  and  to  climb,  sailor-fashion,  hand  over  hand, 
up  the  rope.  In  the  lasso  I  had  perfect  confidence, 
for  I  had  seen  more  than  one  Spanish  bull  throw  his 
whole  weight  against  it  without  parting  a  strand. 
.  .  .  At  last  I  made  a  lucky  throw  and  the 
lasso  tightened  upon  one  of  the  sm^aller  spikes.  I 
drew  the  noose  close,  and  very  gradually  threw  my 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  upon  the  rope ;  then  Cotter 
joined  me  and  we  both  hung  our  united  weight  upon 

[344] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

it.  Whether  the  rock  moved  or  the  lasso  stretched 
we  were  unable  to  decide ;  but  the  trial  must  be  made, 
and  I  began  to  climb  slowly.  The  smooth  precipice 
face  against  which  my  body  swung  offered  no  foot- 
hold, and  the  whole  climb  had  therefore  to  be  done 
by  the  arms,  an  effort  requiring  all  one's  determina- 
tion. When  about  half-way  up,  I  was  obliged  to 
rest,  and  curling  my  feet  in  the  rope  managed  to 
relieve  my  arms  for  a  moment.  In  this  position  I 
could  not  resist  the  fascinating  temptation  of  a 
survey  downward. 

"  Straight  down,  nearly  a  thousand  feet  below,  at 
the  foot  of  the  rocks,  began  the  snow,  whose  steep, 
roof-like  slope,  exaggerated  into  an  almost  vertical 
angle,  curved  down  in  a  long,  white  field,  broken  far 
away  by  rocks  and  polished  round  lakes  of  ice. 

"  Cotter  looked  up  cheerfully  and  asked  how  I 
was  making  it ;  to  which  I  answered  that  I  had  plenty 
of  wind  left.  At  that  moment,  when  hanging  between 
heaven  and  earth,  it  was  a  deep  satisfaction  to  look 
down  at  the  wild  gulf  of  desolation  beneath,  and  up 
to  unknown  dangers  ahead,  and  feel  my  nerves  cool 
and  unshaken. 

"  A  few  pulls  hand  over  hand  brought  me  to  the 
edge  of  the  shelf,  when  throwing  an  arm  around  the 

[345] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

granite  spike,  I  swung  my  body  upon  the  shelf,  and 
lay  down  to  rest.  .  .  .  Cotter  came  up  in  his  usual 
muscular  way,  without  once  stopping  to  rest.  .  .  . 
"  So  narrow  and  sharp  was  the  upper  slope  that 
we  dared  not  walk,  but  got  astride,  and  worked  slowly 
along  with  our  hands,  pushing  the  knapsacks  in  ad- 
vance, now  and  then  holding  our  breath  when 
loose  masses  rocked  under  our  weight.  .  .  .  No 
human  being  could  climb  along  the  divide.  We  must 
climb  down  to  the  other  side  of  the  Kern.  .  .  . 
I  made  the  rope  fast  around  my  breast,  and  looping 
the  noose  over  a  firm  point  of  rock,  let  myself  slide 
gradually  down  to  a  notch  forty  feet  below.  Cotter 
then  slid  down  the  rope.  The  shelf  was  scarcely  more 
than  two  feet  wide,  and  the  granite  so  smooth  we  could 
find  no  place  to  tie  the  lasso  for  the  next  descent. 
Tying  it  round  my  breast  again,  I  gave  the  other 
end  into  Cotter's  hands,  and  he  found  as  firm  a  foot- 
hold as  he  could  and  promised  to  give  me  all  the  help 
in  his  power.  .  .  .  For  the  first  ten  feet  I 
found  cracks  enough  to  support  me,  hugging  myself 
tightly  against  the  rocks  as  I  could.  When  within 
eight  feet  of  the  next  shelf,  I  looked  vainly  for  further 
hand  hold;  but  the  rocks,  besides  being  perfectly 
smooth,  overhung  slightly,  and  my  legs  dangled  in 
the  air.  I  saw  the  next  shelf  was  over  three  feet 
[346] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

broad,  and  I  thought  I  might,  by  a  quick  slide,  reach 
it  in  safety  without  endangering  Cotter.  I  shouted 
to  him  to  let  go  in  case  I  fell,  loosened  my  hold  and 
slid  quickly  down.  For  an  instant  I  reeled  over  upon 
the  verge,  in  danger  of  falling,  but  seized  a  small 
alpine  gooseberry  bush  that  held  my  weight  and 
saved  me. 

"  I  could  no  longer  see  Cotter.  .  .  .  Pres- 
ently his  hobnailed  shoes  appeared  dangling  from  the 
eaves  above  my  head.  He  hesitated  a  moment  and 
let  go.  Before  he  struck  the  rock  I  had  him  by  the 
shoulder  and  whirled  him  down  upon  his  side,  pre- 
venting his  rolling  overboard. 

"  The  summit  was  not  over  five  hundred  feet  dis- 
tant. But  the  smooth  granite  wall  which  rose  above 
the  snow  slope  continued,  apparently,  quite  around 
the  peak.  It  was  all  blank  except  in  one  spot;  quite 
near  us  the  snow  bridged  across  the  crevice  and  rose 
— a  great  icicle-column  frozen  in  a  niche  of  the  bluff 
— its  base  about  ten  feet  wide,  narrowing  to  two  feet 
at  the  top.  .  .  .  We  climbed  the  first  half  of 
it  with  comparative  ease;  after  that  it  was  almost 
vertical,  and  so  thin  that  we  did  not  dare  cut  the 
footsteps  deep  enough  to  make  them  absolutely  safe. 
.  .  .  At  last,  in  order  to  prevent  myself  from 
falling  over  backward,  I  was  obliged  to  thrust  my 
[347] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

hand  into  the  crack  between  the  ice  and  the  wall,  and 
the  spire  became  so  narrow  that  I  could  do  this  on 
both  sides,  so  that  the  climb  was  made  as  upon  a  tree, 
cutting  mere  toe  holes,  and  embracing  the  whole 
column  of  ice  in  m}^  arms.  At  last  I  reached  the  top, 
and,  with  the  greatest  caution,  wormed  my  body  over 
the  brink,  and,  rolling  upon  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  granite,  looked  over  and  watched  Cotter  make 
his  climb.  ...  I  rang  my  hammer  upon  the 
topmost  rock;  we  grasped  hands,  and  I  reverently 
named  the  grand  peak  Mount  Tyndall." 

Such  the  deeds  and  the  thoughts  of  a  lad  of  twenty- 
two  ! 

But  great  as  were  the  opportunities  for  his  brilliant 
talents  on  the  California  Survey,  King's  splendidly 
audacious  ambition  conceived  greater  still,  nothing 
less  than  a  transcontinental  geological  and  topo- 
graphical survey. 

So  in  ^66  he  resigned  and  returned  East  to  under- 
take, single-handed,  the  herculean  task  of  winning 
approval  and  adequate  appropriations  from  the 
President  and  Congress. 

As  an  example  of  the  winning  force  of  his  advocacy 
of  his  project,  Jas.  D.  Hague  tells  us  that  Senator 
Fessenden  of  Maine  remarked,  after  an  evening  spent 

[348] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

with  King :  "  If  I  were  not  United  States  Senator  I 
would  be  United  States  Geologist." 

Further  Mr.  Hague  relates  that  when  the  Secre- 
tary of  War  handed  King  his  appointment  as  chief  of 
the  40th  Parallel  Geological  Survey,  he  said,  "  Now, 
Mr.  King,  the  sooner  you  get  out  of  Washington,  the 
better — you  are  too  young  a  man  to  be  seen  about 
Washington  with  this  appointment  in  your  pocket — 
there  are  four  major-generals  who  want  your  place!  " 

This  great  scientific  work,  begun  in  '67  and  fin- 
ished in  '78,  is  best  summed  up  by  Prof.  Samuel 
Franklin  Emmons,  himself  for  many  years  and  now 
still  recognized  as  one  of  the  ablest  geologists  this 
country  has  yet  produced: 

"  King  reserved  for  himself  the  final  summarizing 
of  the  work  of  his  assistants  and  the  drawing  of 
general  conclusions  and  theoretical  deductions  there- 
from. This  he  wrote  in  '78,  a  quarto  volume  of  more 
than  eight  hundred  pages,  under  the  title  of  'Sys- 
tematic Geology.'  It  has  been  characterized  as  the 
most  masterly  summary  of  a  great  piece  of  geological 
field  work  ever  written,  and  is  used  to  this  day  by 
university  professors  of  geology  as  a  model  for  their 
advanced  students." 

At  a  large  dinner  at  the  Pacific-Union  Club  in  San 

[349] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

Francisco  as  late  as  1891,  attended  by  a  score  of 
the  leading  business  men  of  the  city,  I  well  remember 
a  remarkable  scene  in  which  all  joined  in  acclaiming 
and  toasting  Clarence  King  as  the  saviour  of  the  repu- 
tation of  California. 

"  But  for  King,"  said  one  bank  president,  "  the 
free  flow  of  capital  for  developing  our  mineral  re- 
sources would  have  been  set  back  twenty  years." 

The  incident  referred  to  was  the  famous  diamond 
swindle  of  '72.  A  large  tract  near  Fort  Bridger, 
Wyoming,  had  been  "  salted  "  with  crude  diamonds. 
Two  prominent  California  mining  engineers  had  ex- 
amined the  "  diamond  field  "  and  reported  on  it  fav- 
orably. The  coast  blazed  with  excitement,  the  more 
for  that  the  precise  location  remained  a  carefully 
guarded  secret. 

By  some  casualty.  King  learned  it  lay  within  area 
already  carefully  gone  over  by  his  corps  of  engineers. 
Surprised  but  yet  unsuspicious,  he  immediately  ar- 
ranged to  visit  and  study  the  field,  as  a  new  source 
of  national  wealth  of  incalculable  value. 

So  soon  as  his  plan  became  known  he  was  "  ap- 
proached." Even  the  crudest  and  the  boldest  knew 
they  could  not  venture  to  seek  to  buy  of  Clarence 
King  a  false  report.  But,  desperate,  they  did  not 
hesitate  to  try  to  buy  him  from  his  purpose  to  ex- 
[350] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

amine — offered  some  vast  sum  I  have  heard  stated 
all  the  way  from  $500,000  to  $1,000,000,  to  abandon 
the  trip  and  stay  with  his  routine!  Of  this  offer 
King  never  said  more  to  me  than  that  "  it  was  a 
plenty." 

But  he  went,  all  the  same — found  raw  African 
stones  scattered  loose  upon  the  surface,  none  in 
place  in  a  characteristic  diamond-bearing  formation, 
promptly  bared  the  swindle  to  the  world,  and  stopped 
a  sale,  then  nearly  closed,  that  ran  high  up  into  the 
millions. 

In  his  sports  King  was  as  pertinacious  and  reck- 
lessly daring  as  in  his  professional  mountaineering. 
While  returning  from  the  finish  of  the  season's 
field  work  of  '71  or  '72,  the  party  sighted  a  monster 
grizzly  and  gave  chase.  After  a  short,  sharp  run 
the  grizzly  took  refuge  in  a  cave.  Arrived  close 
behind  him,  they  soon  discovered  that  while  the  cave 
had  two  entrances,  he  was  still  within;  they  could 
plainly  hear  his  labored  breathing,  apparently  nearer 
the  upper  of  the  two  openings. 

I  have  in  my  time  known  a  lot  of  intrepid  bear 
hunters,  but  I  have  never  known  any  but  King  with 
the  hardihood  to  pay  a  grizzly  a  visit  in  the  solitude 
and  darkness  of  his  own  den.  But  pay  this  one  a 
visit  King  certainly  did.  The  lower  opening  was 
[351] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

high  enough  to  allow  a  man  to  enter  in  a  half-stand- 
ing position,  and  there  he  stationed  Emmons  and 
Gardiner  to  receive  the  bear  if  he  came  out. 

Then,  with  a  rope  about  his  legs,  held  by  soldiers 
of  the  escort,  instructed  not  to  pull  until  he  called 
to  them,  and  with  his  pet  rifle,  a  single-shot  Ballard, 
in  his  hands.  King  began  wriggling  into  the  upper 
opening ! 

Within  was  utter  darkness.  All  the  time  he  could 
hear  the  heavy  panting  of  the  bear,  close  ahead  of 
him.  Presently  the  panting  sounded  very  near,  and 
he  felt  sure  he  could  feel  the  bear's  hot  breath. 
Oddly  (he  often  told  me)  he  did  not  see  the  bear's 
eyes. 

Directly,  however,  he  plainly  saw  a  single  wavering 
flicker  of  light,  appearing  and  disappearing  in 
rhythm  with  the  bear's  panting,  and  quickly  decided 
it  proceeded  from  the  bear's  protruded  tongue.  With 
this  tiny  point  of  light  as  the  only  guide  to  his  aim, 
he  fired. 

Startled  by  the  shot,  instantly  the  soldiers  yanked 
him  back  out  of  the  cave,  nearly  stripping  him  of 
clothing  and  scratching  and  tearing  him  about  the 
face  and  body  about  as  badly  (King  always  laugh- 
ingly insisted)  as  the  bear  could  have  done. 

[352] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

Within  reigned  silence.  Apparently  the  bear  was 
dead,  for  the  panting  had  stopped. 

Presently  Emmons  and  Gardiner  entered  the  lower 
opening,  advancing  cautiously  until  at  length  they 
could  plainly  see  the  outline  of  the  bear,  prone  on 
his  belly  but  inclined  a  little  to  one  side,  the  right 
paw  held  back  of  and  above  his  ear,  as  if  listening. 

Instantly  they  saw  him,  the  right  paw  came  down 
bang  on  the  ground.  Thinking  it  preparatory  to  a 
charge,  they  both  hurriedly  fired  and  backed  out 
of  the  cave. 

Still  silence  within. 

Again  the  two  entered — to  find  the  great  grizzly 
stretched  dead:  King's  shot  had  entered  the  roof  of 
the  mouth  and  killed  him  instantly;  the  two  later 
shots  had  missed  him  entirely;  the  weirdly  dropping 
paw,  naught  but  relaxation  of  the  muscles  from  the 
position  in  which  he  had  first  fallen! 

Probably  through  modesty.  Prof.  Emmons  omits, 
in  the  "Memoirs,"  his  own  plucky  part  in  this  affair. 
I  tell  it  as  I  clearly  remember  all  three  describing 
the  incident  thirty  years  ago. 

The  Fortieth  Parallel  work  finished.  King  planned 
a  spell  of  rest — much  needed  after  nearly  twenty 
years  of  unremitting  toil.    But  it  was  not  yet  to  be. 

[353] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    RANCHMAN 

In  '79  several  independent  surveys  were  consoli- 
dated into  one  bureau,  as  the  United  States  Geologi- 
cal Survey,  of  which  King  reluctantly  accepted  the 
directorship.  This  post  he  held  until  the  new  bureau 
was  effectively  organized,  resigning  two  years  later, 
in  '81. 

The  three  years  next  following  he  spent  abroad, 
studying  the  geology  of  Switzerland  and  Great  Brit- 
ain ;  revelling  in  color  and  rhythm  with  Ruskin ;  dis- 
cussing physics  with  Sir  Wm.  Thompson  (later  Lord 
Kelvin)  ;  comparing  mountaineering  notes  with  his 
great  compeer,  Tyndall ;  living  over  again  his  happy 
Sierran  days  before  the  masterpieces  in  Gilbert  Hun- 
ger's studio ;  dipping  deep  into  the  secrets  of  crystal- 
line rock  structure  as  revealed  by  Zirkel's  microscope ; 
chaffing  bar  maids  with  Bret  Harte — seeing  all  sides 
of  English  and  Continental  life,  collecting  art  treas- 
ures, buying  Fortunys,  laces,  embroideries,  old  furni- 
ture, and  a  barber's  basin,  the  famous  Helmet  of 
MambrinOy  immortalized  by  his  letter  presenting  it 
to  his  old  friend,  Horace  F.  Cotter. 

While  never  intended  for  publication,  happily  this 
letter  ultimately  gained  public  currency  through  the 
colums  of  ''The  Century  Magazine." 

This  letter,  William  Dean  Howells  writes,  was  "  a 
sketch  of  Spanish  character  and  circumstance  which 
[364] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

is  almost  as  little  companioned  as  it  is  paralleled. 
.  .  As  an  artist,  as  a  realistic  observer,  every 
kind  of  life  appealed  to  him.  .  .  .  From  some 
men,  from  most,  he  was  of  course  intellectually  parted 
by  immense  distances  of  culture,  but  essentially  he 
was  the  neighbor  of  mankind.  He  knew  the  *  world  ' 
of  his  time  far  beyond  all  other  American  literary 
men  save  one." 

Returning  home  at  the  end  of  '84,  King's  later 
years  were  spent  in  care  of  his  mining  and  cattle- 
ranch  interests  and  in  pursuit  of  his  profession  as 
mining  engineer — largely  in  Cuba,  Mexico,  and  the 
Klondike. 

For  him  many  were  the  disappointments  and  sad 
the  trials  of  these  later  years,  unhappily;  but  the 
harder  the  blows,  the  bolder  he  faced  them ;  the  darker 
his  horizon,  the  brighter  he  smiled. 

Nor  did  even  adversity  serve  to  dam  the  fountain 
of  his  wit.  Breakfasting  one  morning  at  the  old 
Brunswick  Hotel,  at  the  corner  of  Fifth  Ave.  and 
26th  St.,  and  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  a  particu- 
larly vexing  problem  in  our  affairs,  some  turn  of  the 
conversation  led  me  to  ask  why  he  had  never  married. 
"  Want  to  know  why,  Ted.?  "  he  replied.  "  Well,  I'll 
tell  you.  Woman  is  too  one-sided — ^like  a  tossed-up 
penny — and  I  want  both  sides  or  none." 
[355] 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   RANCHMAN 

Perhaps  the  one  thing  King  loved  better  than  help- 
ing a  friend,  was  a  fair  chance  of  a  good  hard  scrap, 
when  the  incentive  was  the  righting  or  avenging  of  a 
wrong. 

He  used  to  hunt  such  chances. 

Often  of  a  night  when  our  survey  offices  and  lodg- 
ings were  at  23  Fifth  Avenue,  he  used  to  say  to  me, 
"  Get  a  stout  stick,  Ted,  and  come  on."  And  then 
down  through  Washington  Square  we  would  go, 
plunging  thence  into  the  wildest  jungles  of  "  Africa," 
as  the  Thompson-Sullivan  Street  region  was  then 
known,  there  wandering,  not  infrequently,  through- 
out the  livelong  night,  in  Quixotic  search  of  adven- 
ture. 

Sometimes  we  found  it — as  when  one  morning, 
shortly  before  dawn,  in  a  dark  alley  off  Sullivan 
Street,  we  ran  on  a  policeman  needlessly  clubbing  a 
drunken  sailor. 

The  neighborhood  at  the  moment  was  silent  and 
deserted.  Without  a  word  or  an  instant's  hesitation. 
King  handed  me  his  stick,  pitched  into  the  policeman 
with  his  good  bare  hands,  and  pounded  him  to  a 
pulp;  and  then,  before  the  policeman  could  recover 
sufficiently  to  summon  aid,  we  legged  it  back  north 
for  our  diggings. 

[356] 


THE  CONQUEROR  OF  MOUNT  TYNDALL 

And  yet  It  was  of  him  John  Hay  wrote  : 

"  It  was  hard  to  remember  that  this  polished  trifler, 
this  exquisite  wit,  who  diffused  over  every  conversation 
in  which  he  was  engaged  an  iridescent  mist  of  epi- 
gram, was  author  of  the  treatise  on  "The  Age  of  the 
Earth"  [later  endorsed  by  Lord  Kelvin],  which  has 
been  accepted  as  the  profoundest  and  most  authori- 
tative utterance  on  the  subject  yet  made.  His  knowl- 
edge of  man  and  Nature  was  enormous,  his  sympathy 
was  universal.  He  had  the  passionate  love  of  Nature 
which  only  the  highest  culture  gives — the  sky,  the 
rock,  and  the  river  spoke  to  him  as  familiar  friends. 
Clarence  King  resembled  no  one  else  whom  we  have 
ever  known,  belonged  to  a  class  of  his  own." 

With  a  mind  filled  with  rare  store  of  learning  in 
science,  art,  literature,  and  world  politics  and  teem- 
ing with  the  most  brilliant  fancy,  with  downright 
wizard  fluency  and  eloquence  of  expression  of  his 
fast-crowding  thoughts,  no  man  the  tenth  part  so 
well  equipped  ever  left  less  (in  volume)  of  finished 
literary  work. 

"  Why.?  "  his  friends  were  ever  asking  themselves. 

I  believe  it  was  because  of  the  very  wealth  of  his 
endowments,  the  multiplicity  of  his  talents  and  attain- 
ments, because  of  a  mind  so  tireless  and  fertile  that  by 

[357] 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   RANCHMAN 

the  time  it  had  sketched  one  brilliant  literary  picture, 
another  was  clamouring  for  the  recorded  expression 
none  ever  got. 

At  the  very  end,  on  his  death-bed  that  sad  Christ- 
mas day  of  1901,  his  last  recorded  words  were  the 
expression  of  a  witticism  gay  and  brilliant  as  any 
he  ever  flashed  across  a  dinner  table. 

His  doctor  had  remarked  that  perhaps  the  drug 
heroin,  recently  administered,  had  gone  to  his  head. 

"  Very  likely,"  King  whispered ;  "  many  a  heroine 
has  gone  to  a  better  head  than  mine  is  now." 

With  or  near  him  through  years  of  alternating 
sunshine  and  cloud,  through  hours  of  joy  and  hours 
of  bitterest  trial,  I  now  reverently  offer  this  humble 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  altogether  the  most  brilliant 
man  of  science  and  letters  this  country  has  ever  pro- 
duced, to  the  gentlest,  sweetest,  bravest  man  and 
stanchest  friend  I  have  ever  known,  to  Clarence 
King. 


[358] 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 

The  Mutual  Life  Insurance  Company, 

Home  Office,  Revision  Bureau, 
Dr.  V.  T.  McGiLLicuDDY,  Medical  Inspector. 
San  Francisco,  Cal.,  March  30,  1910. 
E.  B.  Bronson,  Esq., 

Dear  Sir: — I  am  now  and  then  asked,  "Was  there 
really  a  Sword  .^" 

Thinking  that  the  inclosed  copies  of  recent  corres- 
pondence may  be  interesting  to  you  as  establishing  the 
fact  that  he  did  and  still  does  exist,  I  forward  same. 
Yours  truly, 

(Signed)  V.  T.  McGillicuddy. 

Pine  Ridge,  S.  D.,  July  28,  1909. 
Dr.  V.  T.  McGillicuddy, 

Dear  Sir: — I  write  to  ask  you  to  give  me  a  certifi- 
cate for  the  Secretary  of  War  to  enable  me  to  get 
remuneration  for  services  rendered  in  my  hard  trip  to 
the  north  country  during  the  Winter  of  1877,  to  bring 
Crazy  Horse  to  Fort  Robinson.  You  were  there  and 
knew  about  many  of  the  circumstances.  I  was  sent  out 
by  the  Agency.  The  trip  was  connected  with  serious 
dangers,  as  nobody  hesitated  to  shoot  those  times.  Most 
[361] 


APPENDIX 

people  were  afraid  of  Crazy  Horse,  but  I  went  and  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  him  to  come  in  the  Agency. 

I  was  promised  a  good  reward  but  everybody  forgot 
me  as  soon  as  there  was  no  Crazy  Horse  to  make  trouble 
and  keep  up  agitation. 

I  have  had  considerable  correspondence  with  the  De- 
partment at  Washington,  but  they  pay  no  attention  to 
me,  and  almost  hint  that  I  am  an  impostor. 

I  shall  greatly  appreciate  any  letter  you  may  be 
pleased  to  prepare  that  will  help  me  in  my  efforts,  as 
I  am  needing  money  and  help. 

Yours  respectfully, 

(Signed)  George  Sword, 

Judge  Indian  Court. 


Pine  Ridge,  S.  D.,  Jan.  20, 1910. 
Dr.  V.  T.  McGiLLicuDDY, 

San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Dear  Sir: — I  received  your  welcome  letter  and  was 
very  glad  to  hear  from  you  and  appreciate  your  good 
certificate  and  recommendation. 

I  forwarded  it  to  the  Department.  It  was  referred 
to  the  Agent  at  Pine  Ridge.  His  report  also  has 
gone  in. 

I  would  like  if  you  could  write  the  Commissioner  of 
Indian  Affairs  a  personal  letter  and  suggest  that  they 
help  me. 

In  those  dangerous  days  when  an  Indian  did  not  seem 


[362] 


APPENDIX 

to  be  worth  more  than  a  Texas  steer  among  some  hard- 
hearted white  men,  I  fearlessly  stepped  in  line  with  the 
movement  for  citizenship.  For  this  cause  I  did  what  white 
men  could  not  do  —  no,  nor  the  U.  S.  Army.  I  knew 
Indians  and  how  to  get  at  them.  I  got  much  abuse  for 
this  risky  business  from  my  nation  and  very  little  re- 
muneration from  the  Government.  As  soon  as  the  clouds 
rolled  away  and  peace  began  to  dawn,  the  Government 
forgot  all  about  me.  Now  when  I  am  old  they  disown 
me  and  think  I  am  a  liar  —  they  act  that  way  if  they 
don't  say  so.  I  gave  my  life  for  my  country  just  as  much 
(and  far  more  so)  than  a  majority  of  the  American 
soldiers  who  are  now  drawing  a  living  pension.  I  can- 
not live  many  years  longer.  It  is  a  small  thing  to  the 
U.  S.  Government  if  they  help  me  a  little  extra.  The 
pension  lanes  are  closed  against  me.  Please  write  and 
urge  the  Department  to  be  humane.  You  are  the  only 
man  in  the  United  States  that  can  do  it.  Afraid  of 
Horses,  Standing  Soldier,  American  Horse,  Little 
Wound,  Red  Cloud,  Blue  Horse  are  all  gone  now.  If 
my  name  had  only  been  recorded  in  their  books  I  should 
now  be  drawing  a  living  pension. 

I  do  not  think  it  fair  that  for  this  oversight  I  am 
turned  down.  The  War  Department  won't  help.  The 
Indian  Department  can  well  afford  to  do  it. 

Will  you  do  all  you  can?  Ask  some  Congressman  or 
Senator. 

Yours  very  truly, 

(Signed)  Capt.  George  Sword. 

[363] 


APPENDIX 

San  Francisco,  Cal.,  March  11, 1910. 
The  Hon.  Commissioner  of  Indian  Affairs: 

Sir: — At  the  request  and  in  behalf  of  George  Sword, 
my  old  Police  Captain  at  Pine  Ridge,  I  write  briefly  a 
piece  of  Indian  history. 

Thirty  years  ago,  i.e.,  in  1879,  having  severed  my 
connection  with  the  Army,  I  accepted  the  appointment 
of  U.  S.  Indian  Agent  in  charge  of  the  Red  Cloud  Sioux 
at  Pine  Ridge  Agency,  Dakota. 

On  entering  on  my  duties  I  found  myself  in  charge 
of  about  nine  thousand  wild  and  uncivilized  Indians, 
many  of  them  but  recently  from  the  warpath,  living 
entirely  in  Indian  lodges,  and  in  a  blanket  condition  — 
the  white  man's  homes  or  customs  nowhere  in  evidence 
amongst  them,  school-houses  and  churches  unknown,  and 
these  people,  wholly  and  absolutely,  under  control  of 
Red  Cloud  and  a  few  sub-chiefs,  the  tribal  system  being 
the  law. 

To  break  up  this  tribal  system,  and  the  control  of  the 
chiefs,  was  naturally  the  first  work  to  be  done  on  the 
road  toward  civilization,  hence  I  began  by  organizing 
the  original  police  force  of  the  Indian  Service  as  a  sub- 
stitution for  the  control  of  the  chiefs,  and  this  required 
months  of  hard  and  persistent  labor  in  the  face  of  the 
opposition  of  the  chiefs  and  the  native  soldier  bands. 

I  finally  succeeded  in  enlisting  fifty  of  the  best  young 
fighting  men  of  the  tribe  under  Miwakan  Yuha,  or  "Man 
Who  Carries  a  Sword,"  as  captain,  since  known  as 
"George  Sword.'* 

[364] 


APPENDIX 

For  seven  years,  and  until  1886,  when  I  was  relieved 
for  "insubordination,"  this  little  band  of  mounted  police 
kept  absolute  control  and  sustained  peace  over  these  nine 
thousand  Indians  scattered  over  four  thousand  square 
miles  of  country,  without  the  aid  or  presence  of  United 
States  soldiers,  and  a  United  States  soldier  was  never 
seen  except  as  a  visitor,  where  heretofore  the  presence  of 
the  Army  was  considered  a  necessity,  and  in  doing  this, 
these  young  policemen  encountered  the  opposition  of  their 
chiefs,  and  the  majority  of  their  people,  and  were  prac- 
tically ostracized. 

When  I  left  Pine  Ridge  in  1886,  the  power  of  the 
chiefs  was  broken,  the  tribal  system  was  a  thing  of  the 
past.  The  majority  of  the  tribe  had  adopted  civilized 
costumes,  were  living  in  homes  of  their  own  construction 
—  they  were  opening  up  small  farms,  stock-raising,  and 
engaging  in  other  work,  and  there  was  in  operation  a 
large  central  boarding  school,  a  dozen  scattered  day 
schools,  several  churches,  and  many  other  evidences  of 
the  coming  in  of  civilization. 

To  George  Sword,  more  than  any  other  Indian,  is  due 
the  present  prosperity  of  his  people;  the  value  of  his 
services  cannot  be  measured  in  dollars  or  thousands  of 
dollars. 

He  is  getting  old,  and  he  feels  that  he  is  being  for- 
gotten, and  I  would  bespeak  for  him  some  substantial 
and  fitting  recognition. 

Yours  very  truly, 

(Signed)  V.  T.  McGillicuddy. 

[365] 


APPENDIX 

Manhattan  Club,  Madison  Square, 

New  York,  April  4,  1910, 
The  Hon.  Commissioner  of  Indian  Affairs: 

Sir: — Dr.  V.  T.  McGillicuddy  has  mailed  to  me  two 
letters  received  by  him  from  Capt.  George  Sword,  a 
Sioux  Indian  who  in  the  late  '70's  and  early  '80's  served 
the  Doctor  and  the  Government,  as  chief  of  Indian  police 
at  Pine  Ridge  Agency,  and  also  a  copy  of  the  Doctor's 
letter  to  you  of  March  eleventh. 

While  the  Doctor's  record,  both  in  and  out  of  the  Ser- 
vice, has  been  so  honourable  and  brilliant  that  his  state- 
ments on  any  subject  need  no  corroboration,  I  cannot 
refrain  from  volunteering  my  testimony  to  personal 
knowledge  of  the  truth  and  justice  of  his  plea  for  Sword. 
Frequently  during  the  Doctor's  administration  of  the 
Pine  Ridge  Agency  I  had  occasion  to  visit  the  Agency, 
and  thus  to  become  familiar  with  the  valuable  services  of 
Sword  while  acting  as  chief  of  the  Agency  police,  both 
in  restraining  raids  and  subduing  lawlessness  among 
his  wild  tribesmen,  and  in  recovering  horses  stolen  by 
such  as  did  succeed  in  occasionally  slipping  away  from 
the  Agency  and  looting  the  herds  of  my  fellow  ranch- 
men. In  fact  I  was  present  at  the  first  crucial  test  of 
Sword's  ability  to  establish  and  maintain  his  authority, 
when,  at  the  last  great  Sun  Dance  of  his  tribe,  and  in 
the  face  of  threats  of  the  chiefs  to  exterminate  his 
little  band  of  police  and  the  nine  white  men  of  us  then 
on  the  reservation  if  the  force  was  not  disbanded.  Dr. 
McGillicuddy  led  our  little  party,  including  Maj. 
Bourke  and  Lts.  Waite  and  Goldman  of  the  3d  Cavalry, 

[366] 


APPENDIX 

and  escorted  by  Sword  and  his  men^  to  an  open  defiance 
of  the  12,000  Sioux  (including  2,000  of  Spotted  Tail's 
Brules),  then  assembled  on  Sun  Dance  Flat.  The  Doc- 
tor's bold  strategy  and  Sword's  reckless  audacity  won, 
but  it  has  not  often  been  given  to  any  men  to  escape 
from  as  near  approach  to  death. 

No  Indian  to-day  living,  and  I  doubt  if  any  that  are 
dead,  ever  rendered  such  valuable  services  as  did  Sword 
in  assisting  the  transition  of  his  wild  tribesmen  from 
warlike  nomadic  lodge  dwellers  to  peaceful  husband- 
men. 

Sword's  claims  are  just;  he  is  as  rightly  entitled  to 
a  liberal  pension  as  any  who  ever  wore  this  country's 
uniform.  I  do  hope  it  may  be  within  your  power  in 
some  way  to  aid  him  in  his  declining  years.  Indeed,  not 
to  do  so  would  be — well,  I  guess  I  had  better  not  try 
to  characterize  just  what  it  would  be. 
Very  respectfully. 

Your  obedient  Servant, 

(Signed)  Edgar  Beecher  Bronson. 

Manhattan  Club,  Madison  Square, 

New  York,  April  i,  1910. 
Capt.  George  Sword, 
Pine  Ridge  Agency: 

My  Dear  Sword: — Dr.  McGillicuddy  has  sent  me 
copies  of  your  letters  to  him  and  of  his  letter  to  the  De- 
partment. Herewith  I  enclose  to  you  a  copy  of  a  letter 
I  have  written  in  advocacy  of  your  claims.  I  also  am 
mailing   to   you   a   copy   of   my    "Reminiscences   of   a 

[367] 


APPENDIX 

Ranchman/'  wherein  you  will  find  I  have  written  my 
estimate  of  you  and  your  services.  Sincerely  hoping  your 
claims  may  receive  the  recognition  they  so  justly  deserve, 
a  man  who  has  for  thirty  years  held  you  in  admiring 
remembrance  subscribes  himself 
Your  friend, 

(Signed)  Edgar  Beecher  Bronson. 


Tranquilo  Coronado,  Cal.,  March  21, 1910. 
My  Dear  Bronson: — 

A  book  was  delivered  to  me  by  the  post-master  here 
in  December,  that  had  lain  there  since  June — consequent 
on  my  absence  from  here  during  the  summer,  and  the 
post-office's  carelessness  in  not  digging  it  up  upon  my 
return  in  November. 

To  my  great  joy  I  found  it  a  volume  by  my  old 
friend — "as  square  as  the  fore  shoulder  of  a  hog,  and 
one  that  you  can  believe  the  same  as  if  your  daddy  told 
you,"  as  old  Bill  Paxton  said  of  you.  The  old  man 
never  had  a  chance  to  read  the  "Reminiscences  of  a 
Ranchman."  I  wish  he  had,  for  he  could  have  added 
that  your  true  tale  of  the  finish  of  the  Cheyenne-Sioux 
is  an  epic  unapproached  by  any  penning  of  frontier 
history. 

You  certainly  were  inspired  with  your  theme.  It 's 
a  masterpiece  others  nor  you  can  excel.  Of  those  that 
might  have  attempted  the  narration — witnesses — many 
have  followed  their  red  brother,  Dull  Knife,  over  the 
divide;  most  of  them  could  not  write  at  all,  and  few 
[368] 


APPENDIX 

could  discern  its  lights  and  dark  shadows,  its  graphic 
portrayal  of  history.  It  was  left  to  you — a  pen  fash- 
ioned in  civilization,  but  dipped  in  the  golden  shimmer  of 
the  Western  Plains — to  paint  it  as  an  artist. 

It 's  all  good,  and  to  me  —  well,  it  brings  back  old 
scenes,  old  faces,  old  expressions  and  impressions,  and, 
I  started  to  say,  the  old  ginger  of  energetic  youth.  But 
the  last  should  be  classed  in  "impressions"  and  in  the 
fitful  fleeting  column,  for  ginger  at  49^ — it  oozes  out — 
your  corx  don't  hold  like  it  once  did.  But  all  the  more 
one  likes  to  look  back  to  the  time  when  things  were  in 
the  ascendant,  and  your  "Reminiscences"  furnishes  the 
trail. 

Old  N.  R.  (Davis)  came  here  afterwards,  ill  almost 
unto  death — then  went  home  and  died.  Clarence  King, 
too,  I  met  occasionally  on  his  trips  West,  his  later  trips 
—  the  last  time  in  the  Brown  Palace,  Denver.  He  had 
just  gotten  "Cyrano  de  Bergerac,"  in  the  French,  and 
was  full  of  it,  talked  long  of  it  as  we  sat  in  the  cafe 
together. 

Sam  Cress  and  old  N.  D.,  the  horse,  the  familiar 
scenes  of  the  zinc  and  Deadman,  the  Agency,  Mc- 
Gillicuddy,  old  Sword,  Janisse,  the  Newmans  and 
Hunter,  and  last,  our  meeting  with  Nebo  on  the  Run- 
ningwater,  at  the  Hughes  road  ranch — ^no  one  you  know 
enjoys  the  book  so  much  as  I.  You  have  given  me 
many  happy  hours  and  hours  to  come  in  future  Remi- 
niscences. 

I    am   sorry    I    have   no   photographs   of   the   ranch 
and  range.     It's  all  "grangers"  there  now,  about  the 
[369] 


APPENDIX 

old  zinc  rancH  and  Deadman.    The  "Kinkaid  Act'*  was 
the  cowboy's  funeral,  649  acres  for  a  homestead. 
Sincerely, 

(Signed)  Bartlett  Richards. 

Wyndygoul,  Cos  Cob,  Ct.,  March  26, 1910, 
To  Edgar  Beecher  Bronson; 
My  Dear  Bronson: — 

Your  kind  gift  of  the  two  books  reached  me  just  as 
I  was  leaving  for  Canada.  I  took  the  "Ranchman" 
with  me  and  read  it  on  the  train.  I  have  never  been  so 
absorbed  in  any  book.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  not  been 
too  late  to  see  and  be  of  the  Heroic  West.  The  chapter 
on  the  last  of  the  Cheyennes  is  an  epic  of  terrible  in- 
terest. It  is  typical  of  the  whole  treatment  of  the 
Indian.  We  wanted  his  land — we  were  stronger — we 
crushed  him,  even  as  Naboth  was  crushed  for  his  an- 
cestral vineyard,  and  slaughtered  his  little  ones.  As 
sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven,  this  century  of  hell- 
ish wickedness  will  have  to  be  settled  for;  and  if  ever 
the  revitalized  Chinese  millions  sweep  over  this  land 
with  burning  and  wholesale  slaughter,  possessing,  con- 
quering, exterminating  us,  we  can  only  bow  our  heads 
and  say,  **We  are  reaping  what  we  have  sowed;  as  we 
did  to  the  Redman,  so  God  has  empowered  this  Yellow- 
man  to  do  to  us."  If  in  that  final  scene  there  be  found 
in  us  the  spirit  to  go  forth  with  wife  and  child  and  die 
fearless  and  steadfast,  as  did  Dull  Knife,  then  shall 
we  have  the  joy  at  least  of  going  down  like  men. 

Gratefully  your  campfire  brother, 

(Signed)  Ernest  Thompson  Seton. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


FEB  22  19714  7 


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